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The  Collected  Poems  of 
T.  W.   H.   Crosland 

The  Collected  Poems  of 

T.  W.  H.   Crosland 

Donde  una  pueria  se  cieffa,  otra  se  abre  " 



Martin    Seeker 

Number  Five  John  Street 

First  published  19 17 

The  portrait  which  forms  the  frontispiece  to 

this  volume  is  from  a  photograph 

by  E.  O.  Hoppi 

Note  I'^^l, 

^he  pieces  hereby  assembled  represent  a  period  of 
production  ranging  over  a  quarter  of  a  century.  A 
number  of  those  referring  to  the  war  are  reprinted 
from  '  War  Poems  by  X  '  {Martin  Seeker,  1916). 
Others  are  now  published  for  the  first  time.  Lest 
the  title  '  Collected  Poems '  be  taken  in  its  post- 
mortem association,  the  author  desires  respectfully 
to  say  that  he  is  still  alive. 

3 6 36 lb 



Woman,  3 

Swan  Song,  4 

The  Weeping,  9 

Payments,  10 

A  Song  of  Death,  18 

The  Ballad  of  Poor  Honesty,  23 

Faitan,  28 

April  23,  31 
For  Remembrance,  32 
For  Algernon  Charles  Swinburne,  33 
For  Stephen  Phillips,  34 
Ubi  Bene,  35 

The  Baby  in  the  Ward,  36 
Titanic,  37 
Valour,  38 
Lovers,  39 

On  the  Death  of  Edward  VII,  40 
The  Promise,  41 
Ulster,  42 


Charing  Cross,  43 
For  H.M.C.,  44 

After,  45 

Dawn,  46 

Cor  Cordium,  47 

"  Votes  for  Women,"  48 

For  a  Rich  Man  who  is  said  to  "  Believe  in  Poetry,"  49 

Leda,  50 

The  "Student,"  51 

Antarctic,  52 

Shepherd's  Bush,  53 

Death,  54 

The  End,  55  . 

For  the  Time,  56 


Red  Rose,  59  ,<> 

War,  79 

A  Song  of  Pride  for  England,  81 
Sons,  85 

Unto  the  End,  88 
Post  Proelium,  90 
Marching  On,  93 
Sergeant  Death,  96 
Kitchener,  99 

For  Righteousness' Sake,  100 
John  Travers  Corn  well,  102 
Steel-True  and  Blade-Straight,  104 


Sursum,  io6 

The  Full  Share,  io8 

Killed,  112 

A  Chant  of  Affection,  114 

The  Riddle,  119 

A  Rhyme  of  Gaffer  D ,  121 

The  Ass,  125 

The  Diners,  126 

July  I,  1916,  129 

To  the  Kaiser,  131 

191 2,  132 

Towards  the  Reckoning,  136 

Verdun,  137 

The  DubHn  Rising,  138 

Wounded,  140 

Come  Young  Lads  First,  142 

The  Rhyme  of  the  Beast,  145 

Gaudeamus,  147 

For  Whom  it  may  Concern,  149 

In  the  Train,  151 

Then,  154 

Slain,  155 


Mulier,  159 

From  the  Chimney  Corner,  160 

The  Witling,  162 

The  Little  Old  Knife,  164 

Thames,  166 


The  Eagle,  167 

Sigillum,  168 

Cromwell,  169 

To  the  Little  Muse,  171 

Audrey,  173 

The  Yeoman,  175 

The  Finer  Spirit,  176 

Materiel,  183 

Strike,  184 

Iris  and  the  Water-Lilies,  185 

Brandenburg,  190 

To  John  Bunyan,  191 

Epitaph,  193 

Christmas,  194 

The  Christmas  Tree,  196 

Graves  in  France,  197 

The  Lonely  Man,  198 

The  Admiring  Admirer,  200 

Recipe,  201 

In  Harness,  202 

The  Good  Conceit,  203 

October  21,  204 

Thou,  206 



Four  pomegranates  grow  for  me, 
On  my  true  love's  silver  tree. 

One  I  have  tasted,  and  my  mouth 
Is  filled  with  fragrance  of  the  South ; 

One,  which  burns  with  holy  red. 
He  shall  give  me  when  we  wed  ; 

The  third  from  its  branch  shall  be  torn 
When  our  little  son  is  born  ; 

The  fourth,  which  is  most  delicate, 
Kinder  than  Love,  sharper  than  Fate, 

Fairer  than  fruit  of  Samarkand, 
You  shall  put  in  my  dead  hand. 

>••  •    *  , 

Swan  Song 

Who  makes  an  Eden  must  set  you  in  it, 

And  who  hath  stars  of  crystal  brimmed  and  bright, 

Planets  of  rose, 

Or  moons  of  amber  lit 

From  lordly  lending  suns  of  chrysolite, 

And  beautiful  as  those 

That  ache  to  furious  Saturn. 

For  you  are  silver  dawns 

And  silver  rain 

And  silver  snows  : 

And  the  prodigious  night 

Of  balms  and  dews  and  darknesses  and  dreams 

And  tranced  forests  and  enchanted  streams, 

And  unimaginable  lawns. 

And  unlatched  lattices 

(Enlamped  and  tinkling) 

Suddenly  shut-to, 

And  snaring  silences : 

Eternally  for  you 

The  age-young  seas  are  blue 

And  the  great  peaks  rose-white. 

The  nightingale 

Which  doth  the  world  assail 

Athrob  with  old  immitigable  pain 

And  music  past  her  wit, 

And  ambushed  in  the  cedars,  spilleth  no  note 

Or  fret  or  flurry  or  strain 

Or  magical  sweet  pattern 

That  is  not  yours  ; 

Neither  shall  she,  the  minstrel,  who  doth  sit 

Poised  in  extreme  height 

And  propped  by  April  azures. 

So  to  fling 

The  noise  of  her  aspiring 

At  angel  feet 

And  on  immortal  floors. 

You  know  the  men  and  women  who  are  dead 

Each  by  his  name  and  each  by  her  dim  name, 

And  you  do  count  them  as  you  count  spent  roses 

From  the  first  down 

And  till  the  last  one  closes  : 

Time-which-hath-been,  and  cannot  be,  hath  spread 

Beside  the  river  of  Time-which-is,  a  town 

Of  echoless  dwelling-places  where  inhabit 

Shadows  that  shine  or  bleed 

And  creep  and  climb  and  falter  and  are  sped. 

And  are  yet  shadows,  and  shall  never  know 

More  than  they  knew. 

And  never  more  may  say 

More  than  they  said. 

And  yours  is  their  imperishable  joy 

And  yours  their  woe, 

And  on  your  head 

Fall  ruth  and  rapture  : 

You  are  both  quick  and  dead, 

While  they. 

Whom  luring  Hfe  never  again  shall  capture, 

Are  only  dead. 

There  was  a  maid  who  had  just  heard  of  love. 

And  an  old  man  who  had  forgotten  lust, 

A  barren  wife  whose  heart  was  motherhood, 

A  wanton  who  could  think  on  naught  but  good  ; 

A  thief  who  still 

Had  honour,  and  a  liar 

To  whom  his  lie 

Was  whip  and  fire 

And  an  abhorr'd 

And  grievous  uttering : 

I  heard  a  bride  say  in  the  night 

The  world  is  builded  on  delight, 

I  saw  the  murderer  adore  a  sky 

Of  summer  and  without  fleck 

What  time  the  hangman  grabbled  at  his  neck  : 

They  told  me  of  a  princess  who  had  thrown 

From  her  sweet  state,  hot  kisses  to  the  dust, 

And  of  a  peacock  lord 

Who  darkly  understood 

He  was  a  clown. 

And  of  a  clown  who  surely  was  a  king 

But  minded  apes. 

All  loveliness,  all  ill, 

All  innocence,  all  ruin  and  all  dread, 

All  glory  and  all  disgrace 

Lifted  themselves  like  ghosts, 

In  infinite  multitude, 

Innumerable  hosts ; 

And  all  these  shapes 

Were  yours. 

And  they  had  looks  like  flowers 

And  manifold  soft  graces, 

And  ever  in  their  faces 

I  could  trace. 

Somewhere,  your  face. 

O  secret,  consecrate 

Inviolable  spirit,  elate 

And  amorous  and  proud 

With  blanched  plumes  that  shroud 

And  glitteringly  conceal 

The  flame,  and  the  vermeil 

And  whiteness  not  for  sight. 

Who  to  this  garden  of  tears 

And  the  enthroned  spheres 

Art  essence  and  breath  and  light ; 

Who  blessest  for  the  blest 

And  for  the  lowHest, 

And  standest  on  heaven's  rim 

Out-staturing  seraphim. 

And  sittest  by  poor  men's  fires 

And  givest  to  the  wicked  their  desires, 

And  whom  to  gaze  upon 

That  which  is  done  is  done 

For  ever,  and  shall  be 

Unto  eternity ; 

In  the  translated  clay 

Bathed  out  of  Paphia, 

In  love  and  laughter  and  might 

And  the  seven  souls  of  right 

And  seventy  souls  of  wrong, 

In  birth  and  sorrow  and  song 

And  terror  and  despair, 

And  all  things  fine  and  fair 

Whether  of  gold  or  green. 

The  wonder  have  I  seen, 

The  immanence  flashing  by. 

And,  slain  with  it,  I  die  ! 

The  Weeping 

Through  height  on  height 

Of  the  far  Heaven, 

Which  is  a  firmament 

And  infinite  air 

And  bosom  of  light, 

Great  seraphs  swept 

On  joyful  errands  bent ; 

And  in  the  seven 

Sweet  spaces 

Where  blessedness  doth  begin, 

The  cherubin 

Holily  strayed, 

And  shined  and  slept. 

And  shined  again. 

And  none  that  were 

Engardened  of  those  bright  places 

Sorrowed  or  wept 

Or  knew  the  use  of  tears. 

It  had  been  so  a  million,  million  years 

And  then, 

The  world  was  made. 



"  I  will  come  to  you 
Across  white  dawns, 
In  the  night  of  stars, 
In  the  morning  blue. 

"  Like  a  shining  dove 
Alone  in  heaven. 
In  your  sweet  place 
I  shall  see  you  move.' 

0  Heart,  it  befell. 
When  I  came,  when  I  came. 
You  laughed  ghost-white 
In  the  lamps  of  hell. 



Fairer  than  the  fair 
And  than  young  moons, 
Thus  to  be  lodged 
With  sharp  despair. 

O  innocent, 

Unblemish'd  and  without  spot 
And  so  without  defence  ; 
For  you  the  punishment. 

For  you  the  rod 

And  the  impitying  stroke, 

You  loveliness, 

You  city  of  God  ! 



You  had  no  tears 
Women  may  weep, 
Nor  silver  easing  sigh 
Nor  fortifying  fears, 

No  trepidance : 

Only  the  dumb  amaze 

Of  undeceivedness 

Chanced  upon  all  mischance  ; 

Nor  agonies 

Nor  sorrow  unto  death, 

That  you  should  fall  on  your  face 

In  seven  Gethsemanes. 



Your  punctual  candle  lit, 
Your  bowl  kept  bright, 
Your  thoughts  as  still 
As  the  lily  in  it. 

A  curtain  of  blue, 

A  bed  of  cypress  wood 

And  ivory, 

And  one  great  star  for  you. 

And  cloths  of  fair 
White,  and  cups  of  gold — 
And  in  your  heart  the  knife 
And  winter  in  your  hair. 


How  should  you  pray 

Or  call  to  the  saints, 

Who  had  small  need  of  prayer 

Even  as  they  ? 

How  should  you  guess 
That  over  you  would  fail 
The  pinion  shadowless 
Even  for  a  minute's  space  ? 

How  could  the  air 
Forget  its  kindnesses, 
And  the  earth  its  love 
And  your  angel  his  care  ? 


There  was  a  foul 
And  livid,  living  thing 
That  wept  and  died, 
Having  no  soul. 

The  lips  of  it 

Scarlet  with  lies 

And  impudent  with  leers, 

And  on  its  forehead  writ 

Evil  and  bale  ; 

And  it  hath  fellowship 

Malefic  as  itself, 

But  clad  in  cunninger  mail. 



For  ever,  walls  of  fire 
And  chasms  of  swords 
'Twixt  your  green  country 
And  the  world's  mire. 

It  were  a  sin 
That  echo  or  breath 
Should  reach  to  your  tower 
From  tents  they  riot  in. 

Yet  their  desert 
Lifts  them,  and  deviously 
From  these  and  thence 
Cometh  the  hurt. 



Into  your  book, 
Jewelled  with  flame 
And  clamped  with  honour, 
Who  shall  look  ? 

Borders  of  woe, 
Letters  of  blood, 
Upon  a  page 
Of  milk  and  snow. 

This  justice  for  the  just 
Thereby  you  read — 
Ashes  to  ashes 
Dust  to  dust. 


A  Song  of  Death 

Smile,  O  master  of  life, 

Safe  in  thy  silver  house. 
Be  pleased  with  thy  pleasant  wife — 

Soon  thou  hast  woe  for  spouse. 

Joy  and  joy  are  thy  choice — 
(Shrewd  art  thou  past  a  doubt !) 

Take  they  joy  and  rejoice — 
Sorrow  shall  find  thee  out. 

Laugh  thou  loud  at  the  fool 
Munching  his  bitter  bread  ; — 

Surely  as  thou  dost  rule 
One  shall  rule  in  thy  stead. 

What  though  thy  heart  be  flame, 
And  perfume  all  thy  breath  ? — 

Who  hath  written  thy  name 
Here  in  the  book  of  Death  ? 


Yea,  though  thou  shine  rose-white 
Or  though  thou  burn  rose-red, 

Upon  the  lawful  night 

Thou  shalt  lie  spent  and  sped. 

Drink  that  is  soft  and  sound  ! 

Meats  for  the  delicate  maw  ! — 
Already  the  beldame  is  found 

Who  shall  tape-up  that  jaw. 

Build  through  the  golden  day 
Cunning  in  every  stroke — 

Adze  from  his  bench  must  say, 
"  Shall  it  be  elm  or  oak  ?  " 

And  though  thou  hast  all  grace, 
All  wisdom,  and  all  wit. 

Mattock,  in  the  right  place. 
Will  delve  the  appointed  pit. 

With  faith  thou  art  rich  ;  and  firm 
In  hopes  like  the  young  east — 

Let  us  promise  the  worm 
His  certain  year-long  feast ! 



Fool  that  no  man  calls  master, 

Irredeemable  slave, 
Born  for  the  stark  disaster 

With  nothing  to  hope  or  have. 

Inasmuch  as  thou  moilest 
For  sour  and  scanty  bread, 

Rejoice,  for  wherever  thou  toilest 
One  shall  toil  in  thy  stead. 

And  inasmuch  as  they  gall  thee 
And  bitterness  is  thy  breath, 

On  a  day  they  shall  call  thee 
Forth  to  thy  lawful  death. 

Let  it  not  be  forgotten. 
This  is  the  sure  reward — 

Thou  shalt  lie  dead  and  rotten. 
Even  as  dead  as  thy  lord. 

So  with  the  brand  or  the  feather 
Each  hath  his  tally  and  term — 

Let  us  sup  nobly  together, 

"  Here's  to  the  ultimate  worm  !  " 



Lo,  there  is  anguish  and  wailing 
Out  of  the  world  and  her  wars, 

A  cry  goeth  up  unavailing 
Unto  the  steadfast  stars. 

Set  on  sweet  thrones  they  glister 
Over  our  pain  and  ruth, 

Each  to  her  shining  sister 
Telling  the  wordless  truth. 

Though  we  be  fools  or  sages, 

Who  is  it  conquereth  ? 
Death  shall  pay  this  world's  wages  ; 

All  that  he  pays  is  death. 

By  the  prayers  ye  have  faltered, 
By  the  blood  and  the  tears, 

Which  is  the  law  ye  have  altered 
In  all  the  faithful  years  ? 

No  new  sign  hath  been  given. 
No  new  tale  is  to  tell — 

And  still  the  earth  is  heaven, 
And  still  the  souls  are  hell. 


Death  for  life  is  the  guerdon, 
"  Life  for  death  "  is  the  ban  ; 

None  might  carry  the  burden, 
Only  the  sons  of  man. 

Of  whom  there  is  no  daunting 
Beneath  the  pitiless  sky. 

For  whom  the  final  vaunting 
Is  "  men  can  only  die." 

Cursed  be  he  that  setteth 
Snares  for  the  bleeding  feet ; 

Cursed  be  he  that  getteth, 
And  giveth  not,  good  wheat. 

Cursed  be  he  that  showeth, 
Unto  the  simple,  lies  ; 

Cursed  be  he  that  throweth 
Dust  in  the  star-set  eyes. 


The  Ballad  of  Poor  Honesty 

"  Now  Good,"  quoth  he, 

"  Be  good  for  me. 
And  Evil  be  thou  evil  "  : 

O  simple  wight ! — 

As  well  he  might 
Have  leagued  him  with  the  Devil- 

Who,  when  all's  said, 

Is  a  gentleman  bred, 
And  civil  to  the  civil. 

He  trudgeth  forth. 
Now  south  now  north. 

To  turn  the  needful  penny, 
Upon  his  back 
He  bears  a  pack 

Through  suns  and  snows  a-many 
And  mile  on  mile — 
With  an  equal  smile 

For  Richard  and  for  Jenny. 


"  Yea  these,"  he  sware, 

"  Be  God's  own  pair, 
They  will  not  cog  or  cozen, 

In  smocks  they  go 

To  milk  and  mow, 
And  threadbare  are  their  hosen  ; 

But  if  your  due 

Be  twelve,  for  you 
They'll  count  out  the  full  dozen." 

Yet  Dick,  fell  wretch, 

Did  the  hangman  stretch. 
For  cutting  a  babe's  weasand, 

And  by  the  Bench 

That  brazen  wench. 
Young  Jenny,  was  imprisoned. 

That  folk  might  cry, 

*'  In  villainy 
The  twain  were  properly  seasoned." 

"  Still  Good,"  quoth  he, 

"  Be  good  for  me. 
And  Evil  be  thou  evil ; 

My  grandam  dear. 

Above  her  beer, 
Was  wont  to  curse  the  Devil, 

*  O  little  lad. 

Eschew  the  bad 
Which  doth  defile  ! '  she'd  snivel." 


Upon  an  ass 

He  is  fain  to  pass 
Into  the  virtuous  city, 

And  soon  doth  stop 

With  my  lord  bishop, 
The  learned  and  the  witty  : 

("  So  honest  a  face  !  " 

Mused  his  lordship's  grace — 
And  hired  him  out  of  pity.) 

Here  every  saw 

Of  the  moral  law 
With  joy  he  heard  repeated. 

Till  on  a  night 

In  the  candle-light 
The  bishop's  guests  were  seated, 

And  they  played  a  game, 

Bezique  by  name. 
And  my  lord  the  bishop  cheated. 

So,  nothing  loth, 

Our  friend  shogged  off 
To  service  with  a  person 

Whom  fools  did  rate 

For  a  prop  of  the  State  : 
There  couldn't  have  been  a  worse  'un 

For  by  wink  or  grin 

He  approved  the  sin 
We  are  bidden  to  put  a  curse  on. 


Then  a  judge  he  served 

Who  quite  unnerved 
This  saint  by  actions  foxy, 

Such  as  bringing  home  quills 

From  the  Office  of  Wills 
And  going  to  church  by  proxy, 

And,  once  a  week. 

Pinching  the  cheek 
Of  a  most  offensive  doxy. 

"  Still  Good  for  me 

Be  good,"  quoth  he, 
"  And  Evil  be  thou  evil ; 

I  will  show  my  mind 

Unto  mankind. 
And  speak  them  fair  and  civil. 

And  tell  them  how 

All  men  I  know 
Are  bondmen  of  the  Devil." 

He  trudgeth  forth 

Both  south  and  north 
By  markets  and  street  corners. 

And  saith  aloud 

To  the  wondering  crowd, 
"  Ye  are  plagued  with  thieves  and  scorners 

And  liars  and  cheats 

And  hypocrites 
And  losels  and  suborners  !  " 


He  was  the  first 

That  ever  burst 
Upon  them  with  such  tiding  ; 

Eftsoons  they  cried, 

"  This  fellow's  pride 
Is  surely  past  abiding  !  " 

And  with  grievous  stones, 

They  bruised  his  bones, 
And  hurried  him  into  hiding. 

Upon  the  floor 

He  lies  full  sore, 
Nor  murmureth  unduly, 

Although  he  must 

Give  up  the  ghost 
His  speech  is  not  unruly  ; 

With  his  last  breath 

He  uttereth 
These  words  :   "  I  ha'  spoken  truly  !  " 

So  passeth  he 

Most  miserably, 
Without  or  sniff  or  snivel : 

Unhappy  wight — 

As  well  he  might 
Have  leagued  him  with  the  Devil, 

Who  on  the  whole 

Is  a  decent  soul. 
And  returneth  good  for  evil ! 



They  have  fetched  for  the  king, 
To  his  city  of  might, 

The  singers  who  sing 
In  the  dusks  of  delight 
And  the  noons  of  the  night. 

Where  the  women  are  lain 
They  have  order'd  his  rest, 

With  the  blood  of  the  slain 
On  his  sword  and  his  crest, 
And  his  hands  on  his  breast. 



April  23 

How  shall  we  praise  thee,  who  art  England's  praise 

And  with  the  soul  of  her  soul  most  accords, 
So  that  she  vaunteth  to  the  end  of  days 

England  and  Shakespeare  high,  fast-wedded  words  ? 
O  Royal  thou,  that  spake  us  a  new  earth 

And  new  fair  heavens,  and  a  proud  new  sea, 
Greener  is  April,  boasting  of  thy  birth. 

More  blossom'd  May,  because  she  swaddled  thee  ! 
Before  thy  wisdom  humbly  stand  the  wise. 

Judged  of  thy  goodness,  Virtue  hath  no  cause. 
Whoever  mounts,  a  feeble  feather  tries 

By  thy  great  pinion  ;  and  except  thou  pause. 
The  sweetest  singer  falters  in  his  scale — 
Eagle,  and  Lark,  and  Swan,  and  Nightingale  ! 


For  Remembrance 

What  wife  had  he,  what  sweetheart,  what  fair  love  ? 
So  will  the  gossips  ask  themselves  when  Fame 
Shall  set  her  impudent  lips  upon  my  name 
And  make  an  auction  for  your  cast-off  glove. 
They  know  you  not.     You  are  a  brooding  dove, 
Whose  spirit,  fearful  of  the  world's  sharp  flame, 
Nestles  unto  the  goodness  whence  it  came. 
And  hath  nor  wish  to  range  nor  will  to  rove. 

Yet,  that  through  dusty  Time  you  may  not  pass 

Unpictured,  unenshrined,  or  unadored, 

I  build  this  turret  of  eternal  brass, 

Wherein,  so  long  as  word  may  chime  with  word. 

You  are  to  sit  before  your  jewelled  glass 

Beautiful  as  the  Garden  of  the  Lord. 


For  Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 

The  cherry  whitens  in  the  April  air, 

Young  Spring  has  spilt  her  magic  on  the  wold, 

The  woodlands  ring  with  rapture  as  of  old, 

And  England  lies  new-washen,  green  and  fair  ; 

Yet  is  she  heavy  with  a  secret  care, 

For  Death  the  ever-sharp  and  over-bold 

Hath  taken  our  Tongue  of  Honey,  our  Throat  of  Gold 

And  we  have  digged  a  pit,  and  left  him  there. 

So  must  he  sleep,  though  it  be  high  broad  noon, 

Or  Venus  glister  in  the  darkling  firs  : 

The  roses  and  the  music  are  forgot ; 

Even  the  great  round  marigold  of  a  moon. 

That  is  for  lovers  and  for  harvesters, 

And  all  the  sighing  seas,  may  move  him  not. 


For  Stephen  Phillips 

Now  you  are  dead  and  past  the  bitter  fret 
And  the  long  doubt  and  the  disputed  throne, 
And  the  contempts  which  turn  the  heart  to  stone,- 
Who  that  hath  wit  shall  breathe  you  a  regret  ? 
Who  that  hath  tears  shall  pay  you  pity's  debt  ? 
Unto  your  place  of  easing  you  are  gone, 
Having  fetched  for  us  Beauty  from  her  own 
Lodges  of  gold  by  silver  orchards  set. 

O  mortal  man  that  looked  in  angels'  eyes 
And  still  of  baseness  took  both  rood  and  reed, 
Griever  who  wed  bright  visions  to  great  sounds, 
Teller  of  sorrowful  proud  histories  ; 
We  put  our  silly  fingers  in  your  wounds 
And  it  is  well  that  they  no  longer  bleed. 


Ubi  Bene 

Along  the  English  lanes  a  budding  green, 

Upon  the  English  orchards  pink  and  white, 

And  over  them  the  rapture  and  delight 

Of  April  sunshine  !     Fair  and  fresh  and  clean, 

Washen  as  if  in  wells  of  hyaline 

And  very  wondrous  to  the  pilgrim  sight ; 

A  glad,  new  land  of  all  things  soft  and  bright — 

Oh,  surely,  here  an  angel  must  have  been 

And  left  his  blessing  !   .  .  .  Dead,  young  son  of  ours, 
Who  didst  so  proudly  taste  the  loving-cup. 
Whose  blood  but  now  shone  like  a  living  rose 
Dropped  by  the  Lord  upon  the  Flanders  snows, 
What  country  shall  they  give  you  to  be  yours 
For  this,  the  England  you  have  given  up  ? 


The  Baby  in  the  Ward 

We  were  all  sore  and  broken  and  keen  on  sleep, 

Tumours  and  hearts  and  dropsies,  there  we  lay. 

Weary  of  night  and  wearier  of  day, 

With  no  more  health  in  us  than  rotten  sheep. 

Then,  tossed  to  us  on  some  intangible  deep, 

Alicia  came,  and  each  man  learnt  to  pray 

That  Providence  would  please  find  out  a  way 

To  still  or  abate  the  voice  with  which  she  would  weep. 

God's  infinite  mercy,  how  that  child  did  cry. 
In  spite  of  bottle,  bauble,  peppermint,  nurse  ! 
The  Tumour  said  he'd  "  tell  the  manager," 
The  Dropsy  mumbled  forth  his  bitterest  curse  ; 
But  still  she  wailed  and  wailed.     And  when  we  die 
We  shall  be  sainted  for  forgiving  her. 



Upon  the  tinkling  splintery  battlements 
Which  swing  and  tumble  south  in  ghostly  white 
Behemoth  rushes  blindly  from  the  night, 
Behemoth  whom  we  have  praised  on  instruments 
Dulcet  and  shrill  and  impudent  with  vents  : 
Behemoth  whose  huge  body  was  our  delight 
And  miracle,  wallows  where  there  is  no  light. 
Shattered  and  crumpled  and  torn  with  pitiful  renta, 

0  towers  of  steel  and  masts  that  gored  the  moon, 
On  you  we  blazoned  our  pomp  and  lust  and  pelf, 
And  we  have  died  like  excellent  proud  kings 
Who  take  death  nobly  if  it  come  late  or  soon  : 
For  our  high  souls  are  mirrors  of  Himself, 
Though  our  great  wonders  are  His  littlest  things. 



Mounting  his  stairs  of  azure  and  of  gold, 
The  English  lark  sings  in  the  August  weather 
For  joy  which  knoweth  neither  tie  nor  tether 
And  is  not  troubled  if  the  world  grows  old  ; 
While  you,  who  were  as  blithesome  and  as  bold, 
And  held  your  life  lightly  as  any  feather, 
Sleep  the  high  sleep  that  dead  men  sleep  together, 
Careless  of  what  is  done  and  what  is  told. 

I  know  that  all  our  England  shone  before  you 

When  you  went  down.     It  made  a  radiance 

Even  of  the  front  of  Death.     Oh,  woman's  son. 

You  died  for  England  .  .  .  valiant  as  she  that  bore  you, 

And  sent  you  forth  with  a  still  countenance. 

And  broke  her  heart  for  England — and  lives  on  ! 



He  goeth  and  he  returns  not.     He  is  dead  ; 
Their  house  of  joy  no  further  brightness  shows, 
Their  loveliness  is  come  unto  its  close, 
Their  last  touch  given,  and  their  last  kindness  said  ; 
For  him  no  more  the  vision  of  her  bent  head. 
For  her  no  more  the  lily  or  the  rose. 
Nor  any  gladness  in  this  place  of  woes  ; 
The  book  is  shut,  the  bitter  lesson  read. 

Yet  who  shall  beat  them  down  ?  Though  the  Abhorr'd 
Taketh  the  groom,  and  to  the  bride  hath  sent 
The  dagger  of  anguish  with  the  ice-cold  hilt, 
Both  of  them  triumph  in  a  strange  content — 
And  out  of  souls  like  these  will  heavens  be  built 
And  holy  cities  peopled  for  the  Lord. 


On  the  Death  of  Edward  VII 

All  our  proud  banners  mourn  along  the  May, 
One  who  is  plumed  and  powerful  breaks  us  down  : 
Marred  are  the  orchards,  shaken  our  strong  town, 
And  blackness  covers  up  our  bright  array. 
The  Sceptre  and  the  Orb  are  put  away  ; 
The  scarlet  changed  for  the  funereal  gown  ; 
And  easy  lies  the  head  that  wore  a  Crown, 
And  this  which  was  a  King  is  simple  clay. 

O  mighty  Death,  the  mightiest  are  thine, 

Thou  set'st  his  Widow  weeping  in  her  place, 

And  while  thou  pluck'st  her  heart  with  thy  chill  hand, 

And  givest  her  to  drink  a  common  wine. 

The  wondering  sentry  goeth  at  his  pace. 

And  England  cries,  and  cannot  understand. 


The  Promise 

You  know  my  pains,  you  see  me  in  the  hell 
Through  which  I  toil,  hurt  and  uncomforted. 
You  see  on  what  base  errands  I  am  sped, 
And  what  I  reap  where  we  sowed  asphodel ; 
And  my  songs  are  of  sorrow,  and  I  tell, 
Knowing  no  other,  tales  of  grief  and  dread  : 
Though  I  be  warm  I  am  as  good  as  dead, 
And  always  we  can  hear  my  passing  bell. 

And  yet,  dear  Spirit,  you  who  have  kind  eyes 
That  meet  disaster  with  a  child's  amaze. 
You  who  have  got  a  wild  rose  for  your  lips 
And  are  all  fashioned  out  of  Paradise ; 
You  shall  stand  safe  beside  the  sapphire  bays, 
And  I  will  show  you  all  our  golden  ships. 



The  savage  leopardess,  and  she-wolves  and  bears 
Cherish  their  offsprings  in  the  solitude, 
And  red-eyed  tigresses  whose  trade  is  blood, 
And  female  panthers,  and  jackals  in  their  lairs. 
The  lowliest,  sullenest  mother-creature  wears 
In  her  hot  heart  a  jewel  of  motherhood, 
And  knoweth  darkly  that  the  only  good 
Is  to  defend  and  succour  her  rude  heirs. 

And  thou  whose  Might  is  from  the  east  unto  the  west, 
Whose  Front  is  of  chilled  iron  and  fine  gold, 
Who  yet  in  glory  and  honour  goest  drest, 
O  great-thewed  mother  of  us  all,  behold 
How  this  thy  sturdy  child,  who  is  foully  sold. 
Fights  that  he  be  not  banished  from  thy  breast ! 


Charing  Cross 

At  five  o'clock  they  ring  a  tinkly  bell ; 

The  April  dawn  glimmers  along  the  beds, 

There  is  a  lifting  up  of  weary  heads 

From  weary  pillows.     Our  old  citadel 

Hath  still  held  out,  and  while  the  miracle 

Of  morning  is  unbared  again,  and  spreads 

All  the  young  East  with  greens  and  blues  and  reds 

Each  of  us  wakes  to  his  particular  hell. 

But  even  on  this  bitter  shore  of  Styx 

Where  Life  to  dogged  Death  puts  the  last  schism, 

We  kindle  for  the  ending  of  the  dark  : 

The  Asthma  feebly  jokes  the  Aneurism, 

The  little  bandaged  boy  in  Number  Six 

Sings  "  Ye  shall  die  "  with  a  voice  like  a  lark. 


For  H.  M.  C. 

I  wonder  which  hath  triumphed,  you  or  Death  ? 

For  he  has  torn  you  ultimately  from  your  place, 

And  shattered  all  the  woman  in  your  face, 

And  put  his  last  injunction  on  your  breath. 

And  ferried  you  across  to  his  dim  staith 

Where  there  is  none  who  hath  either  hope  or  grace. 

But  only  the  unimaginable  race 

Of  broken  souls  his  wing  encompasseth. 

O  pitiful  and  pitiful !  And  yet 

Not  all  he  asks  is  yielded  up  to  him. 

And  we  who  fight  have  our  shrewd  joy  therefor  : 

Upon  your  brow  sitteth  a  shining,  grim 

Rapture  of  wars,  and  on  your  lips  is  set 

To-night  the  still  smile  of  the  conqueror. 



And  when  I  die,  you  should  be  grieved,  and  go 
Dumbly  into  the  bitter  fields  alone. 
For  you  have  long  since  made  your  widow's  moan, 
And  carried  in  your  heart  the  widow's  woe. 
Outrageous  Death  hath  neither  feint  nor  blow 
To  hurt  you  further.     Thus  without  a  groan 
I  shall  go  down,  and  be  as  cold  as  stone. 
And  you  will  kiss  me  and  I  shall  not  know. 

But  haply  then  some  mercy  may  befall. 

And  to  your  breast,  this  death  in  life  being  past. 

Quiet  may  come  and  peace  without  alloy  : 

Seeing  you  lone  and  lovely  and  downcast 

They  will  possess  you  with  a  secret  joy 

And  keep  you  with  an  angel  at  your  call. 



This  morning  at  dawn  1  attacked  the  enemy* s  second 
system  of  dejenceP — Sir  Douglas  Haig 

These  are  the  fights  of  Love  and  Joy  and  Men 
With  Fate  and  Death  and  the  illicit  Beast, 
For  guerdons,  of  which  Glory  is  the  least 
And  Honour  not  the  highest.     The  old  reign 
Of  Night  shall  topple,  the  old  Wrongs  be  slain  : 
Fitting  it  is  that  you  go  to  the  Feast 
While  angel  suns  kindle  the  young-eyed  east 
And  bring  the  breath  of  Eden  back  again. 

Oh  soldiers'  hour  !  .  .  .  For  now  the  English  rose 
Flames  and  is  washed  with  the  authentic  dew 
And  through  the  mist  her  ancient  crimson  shows 
I  see  your  shadows  on  the  waking  lawn 
Like  shadows  of  kings,  and  all  the  souls  of  you 
Blazoned  and  bright  and  panoplied  in  the  dawn. 


Cor  Cordium 

He  is  gone  hence.     Weep  no  weak  tears  for  him  : 
You  gave  us  freely  what  you  valued  most ; 
It  is  not  loss,  for  gifts  are  never  lost 
Unto  the  giver.     Lo,  the  star-kept,  dim 
Limits  where  battle  fades  away,  and  grim 
Death  halts  and  hath  no  power  !     On  that  coast 
His  feet  are  set  among  the  shining  host 
Who  range  with  cherubim  and  seraphim. 

A  thousand  suns  are  unregarded  dust, 

A  million  dawns  break  and  are  counted  not, 

And  Beauty  riseth  up,  and  she  departs 

Eternally — eternally  forgot ; 

But  your  fair  stripling,  dead  beside  his  trust, 

Is  safely  folded  in  the  Heart  of  Hearts. 



Votes  for  Women  " 

Mark  how  their  shining  effigies  are  set 

For  ever  on  the  firmament  of  Time, 

Like  lovely  words  caught  in  a  lovely  rhyme, 

Or  silver  stars  kept  in  a  faery  net. 

Ivory  and  marble  hold  them  for  us  yet. 

And  all  our  blossomy  memories  of  them  chime 

With  all  the  honest  graces  of  the  prime — 

Helen,  and  Ruth,  Elaine,  and  Juliet. 

And  You,  in  this  disconsolate  London  square 
Flaunting  an  ill-considered  purple  hat 
And  mud-stained,  rumpled,  bargain-counter  coat, 
You  of  the  broken  tooth  and  buttered  hair, 
And  idiot  eye  and  cheeks  that  bulge  with  fat, 
Sprawl  on  the  flagstones  chalking  for  a  vote  ! 


For  a  Rich  Man  who  is  said  to 
"  Believe  in  Poetry  " 

Let  us  be  filled  with  wild  and  fierce  disdains, 
Let  us  contemn,  disparage,  and  cry  down 
These  prancing  stomachs  who  amass  and  own, 
Inherit  and  squander,  and  have  nets  and  chains 
And  panoplies  of  penalties  and  pains 
Wherewith  to  extort  the  uttermost  half-crown  ; 
For  whom  indeed  the  world's  hard  fields  are  sown 
And  its  scant  harvests  gathered  on  gorged  wains. 

Withal,  we  must  believe  good  things  of  them, 
And  show  a  kindly  bosom  while  they  stand 
Grinning  out  of  their  proud  and  cunning  eyes  ; 
Nay,  even  the  chiefest  shall  not  stir  our  phlegm, 
For  he  hath  still  knowledge  of  Paradise, 
And  hides  an  angel's  feather  in  his  hand. 



Out  of  my  silver  turrets  I  look  down 

Upon  a  garden  wherein  sleeps  a  rose 

Who  hath  a  ruby  heart ;   beside  her  glows 

Unblemished,  in  a  drifted,  vestal  gown 

Yon  lily,  and  beyond  them  lies  a  town 

Of  tufted  green  and  each  sweet  bloom  that  blows  ; 

Midmost  from  whence  a  little  fountain  throws 

His  gentle  sprays  which  seem  but  half  his  own. 

And  on  the  lake  that  skirts  our  dreary  wood 

There  sails  for  ever  a  new-washen  swan, 

Who  is  as  white  as  milk  or  angels  are  : 

At  dawn  he  glitters  in  the  solitude, 

At  dusk  he  goeth  glimmering  and  wan 

To  where  one  waits  him,  white  like  a  young  star. 


The  ^^  Student 

A  minx  of  seventeen,  with  rather  fine 
Brown  eyes  and  freckles  and  a  cheerful  grin, 
She  saunters  up  the  ward,  and  stricken  sin 
Nods  and  looks  pleasant  (why  should  one  repine  ?). 
She  takes  "  her  cases,"  looks  for  every  "  sign," 
Hammers  and  sounds  the  portly  and  the  thin, 
Plies  them  with  questions  till  their  cheap  heads  spin 
And  keeps  them  busy  saying  "  ninety-nine." 

It's  my  turn  now  !  Oh,  let  me  bare  my  chest 
And  spread  a  level  sheet  across  my  crib. 
And  be  as  wax  for  our  meticulous  Miss  ; 
While  she,  poor  dear,  doing  her  anxious  best, 
Feels  for  the  apex  under  the  wrong  rib 
And  wonders  fiercely  where  my  liver  is. 



What  tale  is  this  which  stirs  a  world  of  knaves 
Out  of  its  grubbing  to  throw  greasy  pence 
Forth  to  the  hat,  and  choke  with  eloquence 
In  boastful  prose  and  verse  of  doubtful  staves  ? 
Four  men  have  died,  gentlemen,  heroes,  braves  ; 
Snows  wrap  them  round  eternally.     From  thence 
They  may  no  more  return  to  life  or  sense 
And  a  steel  moon  aches  down  on  their  chill  graves. 

"  They  died  for  England."     It  is  excellent 
To  die  for  England.     Death  is  oft  the  prize 
Of  him  who  bears  the  burden  and  the  load. 
So  with  a  glory  let  our  lives  be  spent — 
We  may  be  noble  in  the  Minories 
And  die  for  England  in  the  Camden  Road. 


Shepherd^ s  Bush 

Preposterous  stucco,  naughty  ropes  of  light, 
The  drunken  drone  of  twenty-two  brass  bands, 
A  flip-flap,  and  some  hokey-pokey  stands  ; 
Smith  on  your  left,  and  Lipton  on  your  right, 
And  Lyons,  Lyons,  Lyons  ;  and  that  bright 
Particular  marvel,  which,  be  sure,  commands 
Respect  from  fools  of  all  and  sundry  brands — 
The  Press  Lord  Harmsworth  prints  from  every  night. 

Here,  noble  London,  dost  thou  prowl  and  yell, 
Or  cause  to  disappear  with  horrid  zest 
The  meat  and  drink  provided  by  the  Jew  ; 

Here  flickereth  they  paltry,  shadowful  hell 

And  like  a  silver  feather  in  the  West, 

And  fair  as  fair,  the  moon  that  Dido  knew  ! 



For  thou  wert  Master  of  their  windy  keeps, 

In  Tyre,  in  Ilium,  and  in  Babylon, 

Which  smote  the  welkin  many  a  year  agone 

With  torches  and  with  shouting.     Whoso  sleeps 

On  the  large  hills,  or  drowns  in  the  old  deeps. 

His  name  shines  in  a  book  for  thee  to  con ; 

And  thy  chill  pomps  and  aching  triumphs  are  won 

Where  the  forlornest  woman  sits  and  weeps. 

So  that  for  thee  we  make  embroideries. 
And  for  thy  foul  pate  twist  a  beamy  crown. 
Who  art  the  lord  of  laughter  and  of  lust, 
Who  readest  all  their  lesson  to  the  wise, 
And  to  the  fools,  as  they  go  up  and  down  ; 
And  it  is  this  :  A  cry,  a  dream,  and — dust. 


The  End 

I  know  that  our  fair  rose  was  slain  last  night : 

She  is  become  a  ruinous,  delicate  wraith, 

And  now  she  gives  her  perfumes  up  to  Death  ; 

No  longer  may  she  shine  in  the  sweet  light. 

Or  drink  the  dewey  darkness  ;  for  the  might 

That  breaks  the  hearts  of  kings  and  staggereth 

Bold  men,  hath  borne  her  down.    "  Take  me,"  she  saith, 

"  Unto  the  old,  dead  roses,  red  and  white." 

So,  dearest,  when  the  ultimate  foul  dun 
And  crawling  knave  into  our  hand  shall  thrust 
His  figure  of  accompt  and  greedy  fine 
For  our  poor  gladness  underneath  the  sun, 
I  shall  come  laughing  to  your  gentle  dust. 
Or  you  will  come  like  balm  to  comfort  mine. 


For  the  Time 

Give  me  the  robe  an  angel  late  hath  worn, 
Give  me  the  tongue  of  wonder  and  the  pen 
Of  magic  which  doth  fetch  the  souls  of  men 
Out  of  deep  hell ;  give  me  the  stings  of  scorn, 
The  rage  of  blood,  agony  of  the  thorn, 
Wisdom  of  hills  and  stars.     Let  me  be  ten 
Times  tried  in  furnaces,  and  tried  again, 
And  searched  in  icy  wells  where  proof  is  born. 

And  I  will  say  to  you  a  word  of  breath 

More  furious  than  the  forty  winds  of  night 

And  fiercer  and  more  terrible  than  death  ; 

And  yet  as  holy  as  the  words  of  light 

That  love  or  mercy  or  sainthood  uttereth, 

And  sweeter  than  the  prayers  of  women — Fight  ! 



*P68a  fi  €ipr}Kas 

Red  Rose 

^ed    Rose   impor-       The  red  rose  called  to  me, 

tuneth    the     Lover,        cc  t>      i 

and    he    answereih  -oe  thou  my  Love  ; 

^^  Lo,  I  am  fire  and  flame 

For  love  of  thee." 

I  said  to  the  red  rose, 

"  It  is  in  starry  white. 

With  brows  and  breasts  of  snow. 

That  my  Love  goes." 


She   contiHueih   to       «  Come  to  me,  come  to  me, 
tnvtte      htm     and        t    i    n  i  n 

praiseth  herself  1  shall  be  excellence. 

Softness  and  bloom  and  myrrh 

And  heavy  sleep,"  saith  she. 

"  And  I  have  doves,  as  of  old, 
My  lips  are  crimson  joy. 
And  my  smiles  are  of  light. 
And  my  tears  are  of  gold." 


l^lZt^Tj-       "Th^-  Kings  rage  at  my  door, 
deth  him  be  the  chief       They  would  have  love  of  me, 
of  them  Till  I  look  forth  on  them, 

They  are  mean  men  and  poor. 

"  In  purple  they  go  drest. 
And  bright  gifts  each  King  bears, 
Come  thou  and  be  with  us, 
And  I  will  love  thee  best." 


She  descriheth  her        "  There  is  a  chamber  hes 
chamber     and    the         ^        i      r        ^     r  i. 

pleasures  thereof  In   the  heart  of  my  house, 

Secret  and  sweet  and  dim, 

Lit  only  with  mine  eyes. 

"  We  will  burn  spices  there, 
And  we  will  say  to  Life, 
*  Bring  now  for  our  delight 
All  that  is  good  and  fair.'  " 


The    Lover    telleth        J  said,  "  No  Kings  may  wait 
her  of  the  chamber  .  i  •       t  i 

of  his  own  Love  Against  my  white  Love's  door, 

She  hath  no  Love  save  one. 

She  needeth  not  such  state. 

"  Her  chamber  is  of  blue, 
A  gold  lamp  shines  therein  ; 
A  lily  and  a  babe 
Are  in  her  chamber  too." 


The    Lover  falleth       Red  rose,  red  rose, 

captive  to  her  beauty        ^,       i  ,  , 

Oh,  thou  red  rose  I 

I  went  into  her  house 

Upon  the  slow  day's  close, 

I  lay  down  on  her  bed, 
She  smiled  her  smile  of  light. 
She  wept  her  tears  of  gold  : 
"  Oh,  thou  red  rose  !  "  I  said. 


He  parleyeth  with         "  Red  rose,  red  rose, 

Red  rose  and  rose  of  mine, 
Behold  we  are  one  soul, 
With  love  for  its  repose." 

She  laughed,  like  one  who  sings, 
Saying,  "  We  are  one  soul." 
She  thought  of  my  white  Love, 
And  I  of  those  three  Kings. 


They  sleep  She  thought  of  those  three  Kings, 

And  I  of  my  white  Love  : 
A  cold  moon  look'd  at  us, 
Chill  from  a  thousand  springs. 

I  said,  "  But  we  are  one." 
She  said,  "  Yea,  we  are  one." 
We  slept  a  lover's  sleep 
Until  that  moon  was  gone. 


The  awakening     At  dawn  she  stirred  and  woke. 
I  said,  "  O  red,  red  rose, 
What  of  my  little  white  Love  ?  " 
And  never  a  word  she  spoke. 

Before  her  mirror  long 
Stood  she,  and  tired  herself. 
Her  hair  flamed  in  the  sun. 
Her  laugh  was  like  a  song. 


They  are  to  ride  «  The  day  is  fair,"  she  said, 

^^^*  «  We  wiU  ride  forth,"  said  she, 

"  I  on  a  milk-white  horse, 
Thou  on  a  roan  of  red. 

"  The  world  is  deck'd  like  a  bride, 
And  sharp  and  sweet  the  air. 
Those  kings  shall  follow  us, 
Thou  ridest  at  my  side." 


They  ride,  and  th*       We  rode  forth  into  the  dawn, 
Lover  seeth  his  own  .,,         ,.  j    i. 

£oj;.  All  a-glitter  and  shine, 

Along  the  sleepy  streets, 

Past  lodge  and  river  and  lawn, 

And  fields  that  good  men  till ; 
And  out  by  the  western  gate 
I  saw  my  little  white  Love 
Simpling  upon  a  hill. 


He  showeth  her  to          I  gaid   «  Red  rose,  red  rose, 
Red  Rose  ^  \  ,      .      i 

Seest  thou  who  is  there  r 

It  is  my  own  white  Love, 

Mark  with  what  grace  she  goes." 

"  Pardie,  pardie,  good  Sir, 
Is  it  thy  lady  Love  ? 
Then,  if  thou  lovest  me  true, 
Get  down  and  speak  with  her." 


He  will  not  go  to  She  smiled  her  smile  of  light, 

his  own  Love  _,  ,  ,  .  ,. 

ohe  pursed  her  crimson  lips, 

She  let  her  hand  touch  mine, 

Her  eyes  shone  very  bright. 

I  said,  "  Red  rose,  I  ween 
That  thou  and  I  are  as  one, 
I  would  not  leave  they  side 
An  she  were  Mary  Queen." 


Red   Rose    dealeth       go  that  we  rode  and  came 
shrewdly  wxth  htm         -t  r  •  i 

Unto  a  fair  green  place  ; 

She  put  her  head  on  my  breast, 

And  softly  said  my  name. 

Those  three  Kings  stood  apart, 
Plotting  my  death  they  stood  ; 
She  took  a  jewelled  knife, 
And  stabbed  me  in  the  heart. 


And  leaveth  him  to       And  turned  her  milk-white  steed, 

And  kissed  me  on  the  lips, 

And  laughed  to  those  three  Kings, 

And  left  me  there  to  bleed. 

And,  with  those  Kings,  did  ride 
Away  in  the  sunshine  : 
I  could  not  wish  her  hurt, 
"  0  red,  red  rose,  "  I  cried. 


He  riseth  up  Lfj^e  torches  in  the  sky 

At  night  the  stars  awoke, 
The  ghost  of  me  stood  up 
And  ached  exceedingly. 

The  world  seemed  full  of  shows 
I  went  to  mine  own  door, 
And  look'd  on  my  white  Love, 
And  cried,  "  0  red,  red  rose  !  " 


The  end  Spring  sitteth  at  her  loom, 

Weaving  her  green  and  gold, 
The  sweet  lark  sitteth  in  heaven, 
And  thou  in  thy  red  room  ! 

My  white  Love,  still  as  a  mouse, 
Still  and  quiet  and  pale, 
Sitteth  beside  her  babe. 
And  thou  in  thy  red  house  ! 





She  took  of  fire  of  the  sun  and  steel  of  the  icy  moon 
And  rage  of  furious  seas  and  breath  of  the  hurricane, 
And  silver  sound  of  April  and  blossom  and  dust  of  June, 
And  tears  of  women  and  terror  of  babes  and  blood  of  the 

hearts  of  men ; 
Through  nights  athrob  with  her  rose-red  star  and  aghast 

with  the  wild  star's  falling, 
And  days  of  summer  whereby  she  was  throned  and  days 

of  autumn  that  crowned  her, 
She  went  to  make  dread  feasts  and  great  pomps ;   and  she 

reigneth — for  ever  calHng 
The  fairest  and  kindest  and  bravest  and  youngest  and 

dearest  around  her. 


For  them  she  hath  lures  which  are  swifter  than  joy  and 

brighter  than  hope 
And  subtler  than  aught  that  cunning  deviseth  or  gildeth, 
Surer  to  snare  and  safer  to  catch  than  love-lamp  or  silken 

Hung  from  the  moonlit  window  for  token  of  love  which 

yieldeth ; 


She  hath  content  for  the  high  wild  heart  and  content  for 

the  wooer, 
She  is  the  lover  of  lovers,  whom  loving,  none  may  love 

Softly  she  sayeth  the  names  of  her  children  that  they  may 

go  to  her. 
And  she  gathers  them  to  her  stark  fierce  bosom  hke  a  proud 



Of  old  hath  she  been  contemned  by  mouths  that  were 

zealous  and  wise. 
Sister  of  Murder,  procuress  and  bondwoman  of  Death  ; 
Yet  is  the  blood  on  her  hand  made  snow  by  the  Faith  in 

her  eyes. 
And  the  tongue  of  triumphing  Time  for  her  righteousness 

witnesseth : 
Out  of  all  darkness  she  comes  with  all  sweet  light  on  her 

Into  the  ear  of  the  flesh  she  crieth  quick  speech  of  the 

spirit ; 
And  she  bringeth  the  world  from  its  travail  and  ache  to 

its  certain  comfort,  and  blesses 
Them  that  endure  and  are  broken  and  spent  for  them  that 



A  Song  of  Pride  for  England 

Lo,  the  stark  heavens  are  stirred  : 
He  Cometh,  plumed  and  spurred, 
To  say  the  undaunted  word, 

England ! 
With  high  and  haughty  breath 
He  hails  the  hordes  beneath  ; 
This  hath  he  for  their  teeth — 

"  England  again  ! 


King  George  in  London  Town, 
Sweareth  our  own's  our  own  : 
Whose  might  shall  pluck  us  down, 

England  ? 
Glories  of  slaughtered  hosts. 
Splendours  of  English  ghosts 
Beckon  us  from  our  coasts, 

England  again 



Shrewd,  on  our  world  of  seas, 
Waketh  at  dawn  a  breeze 
Singing  bold  melodies, 

England ! 
Rose-red  the  long  day  falls, 
And  the  frore  night  wind  calls 
To  our  proud  Admirals, 

"  England  again  !  " 


Our  Ensign  flutters  still 
On  the  unshaken  hill ; 
Our  Bugle  vaunteth  shrill, 

England ! 
What  of  the  heathen  draff  ? 
They  are  as  burning  chaff. 
Into  their  eyes  we  laugh, 

England  again ! 

Death  in  his  charnel-house, 
Rage  and  the  Devil's  spouse 
Hate — ruffle  not  your  brows, 
England ! 


Blood  of  your  fathers'  blood, 
Bred  of  great  motherhood, 
Suckled  on  ancient  good — 

"  England  again  !  " 


You  shall  be  steel  and  ice, 
Stronger  than  love,  and  thrice 
Stricken  for  sacrifice, 

England ! 
You  shall  bow  to  the  flail. 
The  hammer  and  the  nail. 
And  perish — and  prevail, 

England  again ! 


While  this  our  little  land 
Hath  a  man-child  to  stand, 
He  shall  lift  up  his  hand, 

To  smite  the  accursed  bars  : 
Out  of  the  din  of  wars 
He  shall  shout  to  the  stars, 

"  England  again  !  " 



Troop  you  from  field  and  fold, 
Market  and  shop  of  gold  ; 
Let  the  full  tale  be  told, 

England  ! 
Time  beats  his  pitiless  drum^ 
Fate's  at  her  iron  loom, 
For  the  New  Earth,  or  Doom — 

England  again 



We  have  sent  them  forth 

To  Christ's  own  rood  ; 
Their  feet  are  white 

On  the  fields  of  blood, 
And  they  must  slake 

Their  young  desire 
In  wells  of  death 

And  pits  of  fire. 

The  red  cock  crows 

And  the  grey  cock  crows, 
And  there  is  red 

On  Flanders'  snows ; 
And  sun-scorched  sand 

And  thirsty  clay 
Drink  a  red  spilth 

By  Suvla  Bay. 


And  where  Azizeah's 

Turrets  gleam, 
And  Tigris  glitters, 

Like  a  dream, 
Through  nights  of  scent 

And  tinkling  sounds. 
Sleep  rose-white  dead 

With  rose-red  wounds. 


I  saw  the  Shadow 

Count  the  fair 
Sum  of  his  takings  ; 

Them  that  were 
Children  in  years 

When  they  were  sped. 
And  now  are  mighty 

Being  dead. 

Like  galaxies 

Of  stars,  they  shone 
In  the  great  places 

They  have  won ; 
He  sets  them  there. 

No  sting  hath  he, 
And  his  is  not 

The  \^ctory. 


And  whom  he  spared 

I  saw  return, 

From  his  brave  bourne — 
Strong  with  the  wisdom 

Of  the  Wars, 
Bright  from  the  camps 

Of  Conquerors. 


Unto  the  End 

Though  the  rivers  of  crystal  run  blood  till  the  seas  are 

And  the  lands  which  were  for  proud  harvests  gape  livid  with 

death ; 
And  the  goodness  we  had  of  the  days  is  emptied  for  ever  of 

And   for   ever  the   balm   of   the   silver  night   faileth   and 

perisheth ; 
And  though  from  the  womb  our  sons  know  only  to  rage 

and  kill, 
And  our  daughters  forget  that  a  bride  is  wed  not  for  widow 

but  wife ; 
And  War,  which  the  wise  of  their  wisdom  accounted  the 

chiefest  ill, 
Boasteth  itself  for  the  glory  and  blessing  and  purport  of 

Yea,  though  these  things  were  established  for  ever — how 

should  we  quail, 
Or  falter,  or  doubt  that  the  sheer,  stark  soul  of  us  shall 

prevail  ? 

We  are  done  with  the  laughter  and  solace,  the  softness,  the 

The  clusters  and  sheaves  of  content,  the  honey  and  milk ; 
We  are  gone  from  the  beautiful  places  unto  the  brinks  of 

Where  that  is  sharp  which  was  sweet  and  that  is  steel 

which  was  silk, 
And  that  is  woe  which  was  flesh,   and  hurt  which  was 

And  the  fairest  and  kindest  love  must  sort  with  a  lurking 

And  the  heart  of  pity  be  stone  within  her,  and  wrong  be 

but  right, 
And  our  very  prayers  are  for  power  to  punish  and  desolate  ; 
Yea,  stript  to  the  spirit  we  stand,  naked  and  very  sure 
Of  naught  but  the  spirit,  which,  if  it  triumph  not,  yet  shall 



Post  Proelium 


Lovely,  and  mightily-thewed 

Mother  of  this  great  brood, 

Lo,  the  beatitude 

Falls  on  thee  like  a  flood. 

And  folds  thee  where  thou'rt  stood 

Fronting  the  destinies 

With  comfortable  eyes. 


Now  knowest  thou  the  rose 
Which  to  the  sweet  air  blows 
In  thy  fair  garden-close, 
And  thine  own  lark  that  throws 
Down  music  as  he  goes 

Vaunting  to  heaven  of  thee, 
Are  not  for  the  enemy. 



Now  knowest  thou  the  maid 
Of  her  young  joy  unstayed, 
And  matrons  who  have  said 
Most  secret  prayers,  afraid 
To  tell  themselves  they  prayed— 

In  thy  green  land  shall  dwell 

Safe  and  inviolable. 


Woodland  and  russet  farm, 
And  hamlet,  and  the  warm 
And  goodly  towns  where  swarm 
Thy  populations,  Harm 
Taketh  not  in  her  palm  ; 

And  never  will  they  know 

The  tread  of  any  foe. 

For  round  thee  is  the  sheer 
Might  of  the  mariner 
Whom  thou  didst  suckle  and  rear 
And  give  for  the  ships.     No  peer 
Hath  he  to  drive  and  steer 

And  fight  till  the  last  bells 

The  steely  citadels. 



Now  knowest  thou  the  deeps 
Of  a  verity  thine  ;   nor  sleeps 
Nor  fails  the  ward.     Who  leaps 
For  what  thy  Amireld  keeps, 
Soweth  a  wind,  and  reaps 

The  whirlwind  from  thy  guns, 
The  lightning  from  thy  sons. 


Blessed  art  thou  that  sent 
These  to  be  strawne  and  spent ; 
And  blessed  they  that  went, 
Singing  with  heart's  content. 
Unto  the  sacrament ; 
And  blessed  they  that  mourn 
Whoso  shall  not  return. 


Marching  On 

I  heard  the  young  lads  singing 

In  the  still  morning  air, 
Gaily  the  notes  came  ringing 

Across  the  lilac'd  square  ; 
They  sang  like  happy  children 

Who  know  not  doubt  or  care, 

"  As  WE  GO  MARCHING  ON." 

And  each  one  sloped  a  rifle 
And  each  one  bore  a  pack ; 

They  had  no  grief  to  stifle, 
No  tears  to  weep,  alack  ; 

They  were  too  blithe  to  question 
Which  of  them  should  come  back. 
As  they  went  marching  on. 



Oh,  thou  whose  eyes  are  sorrow, 
And  whose  soul  is  sorrowing. 

Who  knowest  that  each  to-morrow 
A  deeper  woe  may  bring. 

And  knowest  that  all  the  comfort 
Is  the  very  littlest  thing 

While  they  go  marching  on  ; 

These  sons  of  thine  seek  glory, 

As  the  bridegroom  seeks  the  bride, 

And  who  shall  tell  the  story 

Of  their  triumph  and  their  pride  ? 

Like  lovers,  for  the  love  of  thee 

They  have  lain  them  down  and  died  ; 
And  they  go  marching  on. 


They  march  by  field  and  city. 
By  every  road  and  way, 

A  march  which  angels  pity 
And  none  may  stop  or  stay 

Till  the  last  head  is  rested 
On  the  last  crimson  clay  ; 

So  they  go  marching  on  ! 


They  march  in  the  broad  sunlight 

And  by  the  lovers'  moon. 
Into  the  flame  and  gun-light 

From  morns  and  eves  of  June, 
And  Death  for  their  entranced  feet 

Pipes  an  obsequious  tune, 

And  keeps  them  marching  on. 


And  mid  the  battle  thunder. 
And  in  the  fields  of  blood, 

They  see  the  untarnished  wonder. 
The  healing,  and  the  good 

Which  passeth  understanding 
And  can  not  be  understood  ; 

And  they  go  marching  on. 

They  see  the  rose's  brightness 
Made  perfect  and  complete, 

Lilies  and  snows  of  whiteness, 
And  wings  of  gold  that  beat 

For  ever  and  for  ever 
Before  the  Paraclete ; 

And  they  go  marching  on. 


Sergeant  Death 

Oh,  Sergeant  Death, 
I've  served  with  you, 
And  chanced  my  breath 
A  time  or  two  ! 

Fve  seen  brave  men 
Turn  green  as  sin. 
When  you  have  coughed, 
"  FaU  in,  faU  in  !  » 

I've  heard  brave  men 
With  cold  fear  shout, 
When  you  have  piped, 
"  FaU  out,  faU  out !  " 

Where'er  a  lad 
Would  do  his  part, 
'Tis  you  that  probes 
His  inmost  heart. 


Though  all  be  stirred 
By  drums  a-roll, 
'Tis  you  that  finds 
The  soldier  soul, 

And  takes  him  through 
The  conqueror's  drill, 
And  helps  him  home, 
Or  leaves  him  still. 

'Tis  you  that  puts 
In  one  parade 
Them  that  were  anxious 
And  afraid, 

And  them  that  were 
Fed-up  and  sick. 
And  them  that  begged 
You  to  be  quick, 

And  them  that  gave 
You  laugh  for  laugh. 
And  bitterer  chaff 
For  bitter  chaff.  .  .  . 


Oh,  you  are  old, 
And  fierce  and  wise, 
But  there  is  goodness 
In  your  eyes. 

And  still  your  health 
Goes  round  the  tents- 
"  The  Father  of 
The  Regiments  !  " 


If  Death  had  questioned  thee, 

"  Soldier,  where  wouldst  thou  take 

The  immitigable  blow  ?  " 

Thou  hadst  answered,  "  Let  it  be 

Where  the  battalions  shake 

And  break  the  entrenched  foe." 

Yet  wert  thou  nobly  starred 
And  destined.     Thou  dost  die 
On  the  grim  English  sea  ; 
Thou  goest  to  the  old  tarred 
Great  Captains,  and  shalt  Ue 
Pillowed  with  them  eternally. 

And  they  shall  stir  from  their  rest 
Each  in  his  lordly  shroud. 
And  say,  "  'Fore  God,  we  have  room. 
So  are  the  deeps  made  proud ; 
Behold  the  glory  on  his  breast, 
Kitchener  of  Khartoum  !  " 


For  Righteousness^  Sake 

Man  that  is  born  of  a  woman — 

The  creature  of  doom, 
Who  lives  that  the  Shadow  may  summon 

Men  forth  to  the  tomb  ; 

Who  knoweth  not  wages  or  earning, 

Who  sows  not  to  reap. 
Whose  labour  and  passion  and  yearning 

Must  finish  with  sleep  ; 

Who  catches  in  vain  at  the  glory  ; 

Whose  brightness  is  rust ; 
Whose  days  are  a  breath  and  a  story ; 

Whose  house  is  the  dust ; 

Who  lies,  if  he  vaunt  him  of  merit, 
Whose  tree  bears  no  fruit. 

Who  quenches  the  spark  of  the  spirit 
With  lusts  of  the  brute  ; 


Yet — standeth  erect  to  the  fighting 

And  whirlwind  and  flame, 
And  squanders  himself  for  the  smiting 

Of  Terror  and  Shame  ; 

Who  gathereth  his  weakness  and  brings  it 

Where  furies  move ; 
And  loves  the  world  so  that  he  flings  it 

Away  out  of  love  ; 

Even  though  he  were  fashioned  to  perish 

By  ordinance  grim, 
The  Sons  of  the  Morning  would  cherish 

Memories  of  him  : 

Who  owing  a  debt  went  and  paid  it, 

And  kept  with  his  blood 
The  Earth  for  the  Wisdom  who  made  it 

And  saw  it  was  good. 


John  Travers  Cornweu 

"  Boy  {first  class)  John  Gravers  Cornwell,  of  Chester,  was 
mortally  wounded  early  in  the  action.  He  nevertheless 
remained  standing  alone  at  a  most  exposed  post  quietly 
awaiting  orders  till  the  end  of  the  action,  with  the  gun^s  crew 
dead  and  wounded  all  round  him." — Admiral  Beatty 

Mortally  hurt,  alone  he  stood, 
England,  in  thy  great  fortitude. 

While  his  spent  shipmates  round  him  lay 
He  held  on  in  thine  ancient  way — 

A  stripling  with  the  veteran  eye 
For  the  hard  front  of  destiny. 

Effacing  Time  shall  not  destroy 
The  memory  of  this,  thy  boy. 


On  his  young  head  the  glory  falls, 
As  on  the  lordliest  admirals  ; 

Fate  sets  his  name  in  honour  grim 
And  even  Death  is  proud  of  him. 


Steel-  True  and  Blade-Straight 


Steel-true  and  blade-straight — 
There's  your  man  !  And  soon  or  late 

He  is  England — all  of  her  ; 

All  the  Blood  that  makes  her  fair, 
All  the  Soul  that  makes  her  great, 
Steel-true  and  blade-straight. 


Steel-true  and  blade-straight — 
Neither  puffed  out,  nor  elate. 

Neither  glad,  nor  sad,  nor  sorry, 
Seeking  neither  grace  nor  glory, 
Steadfast  at  the  battered  gate — 
Steel-true  and  blade-straight. 



Steel-true  and  blade-straight — 

Let  the  pillars  of  the  State 

Wrangle  to  their  hearts'  content- 
His  to  fend  and  thrust  and  feint, 

His  to  watch  and  ward  and  wait^ 

Steel-true  and  blade-straight. 


Steel-true  and  blade-straight — 
While  we  bawl  and  perorate, 

Big  with  "  ifs  "  about  our  war- 
He,  the  undoubting  conqueror, 
Knocks  the  nonsense  out  of  Fate — 
Steel-true  and  blade-straight. 



I  saw  his  dread  plume  gleaming, 
As  he  rode  down  the  line. 

And  cried  like  one  a-dreaming 
"  That  man,  and  that,  is  mine  ! 

They  did  not  fail  or  falter 
Because  his  front  so  shone  ; 

His  horse's  golden  halter 

With  star-dust  thick  was  sown. 

They  followed  him  like  seigneurs, 
Proud  both  of  mien  and  mind — 

Colonels  and  old  campaigners 
And  bits  of  lads  new-joined. 

A  glittering  way  he  showed  them 
Beyond  the  dim  outpost. 

And  in  his  tents  bestowed  them — 
White  as  the  Holy  Ghost. 


And,  by  the  clear  watch-fires, 
They  talk  with  conquerors, 

And  have  their  hearts'  desires, 
And  praise  the  honest  wars. 

And  each  of  them  in  raiment 
Of  honour  goeth  drest, 

And  hath  his  fee  and  payment. 
And  glory  on  his  breast. 

O  woman,  that  sit'st  weeping- 
Close,  Hke  the  stricken  dove,- 

He  is  in  goodly  keeping, 
The  soldier  thou  didst  love  ! 


The  Full  Share 

"/  take  my  full  share  of  responsibility  for  the  initiation  of 
that  operation — my  full  share.  .  .  .  1  do  not  propose  to  adopt 
the  attitude  of  a  white-sheeted  penitent,  with  a  couple  of  candles, 
one  in  each  hand,  doing  penance  and  asking  for  absolution.''^ 
— Mr.  Asquith. 


Do  not  expect  from  me 

(Whom  you  have  set 

In  this  authority) 

Defence,  apology, 

Excuse  or  plea. 

Or  even  a  regret : 

No  sheeted  penitent 

Am  I, 

To  stand 

Candle  in  hand 

And  cry 

That  I  may  be  forgiven. 

Absolved  or  shriven. 

For  what  is  spilt  and  spent. 


All  that  has  happened  so 

Is  so. 

I  lay  it  bare  ; 

Admission  I  make : 

The  wisest  of  us  err, 

The  best  plans  go  awry  ; 

Perhaps  we  blundered  sore  ; 

But  I  would  have  you  know 

No  one  is  more 

Responsible  than  I, 

And  of  the  accountability  I  take 

My  share — and  my  full  share  ! 


In  far  Gallipoli 

Where  Achi  frowns  to  the  sea. 

And  wild  war-fires  are  set ; 

Stark  to  the  Eastern  moon, 

There  lies, 

Huddled  in  the  last  agonies. 

Beside  his  shattered  gun, 

A  new-slain  EngUsh  boy  : 

And  his  dead  eyes 

Hint  not  apologies. 

Excuses  or  regret, 

Neither  dismay  nor  joy  ; 

No  candles  at  his  head 

Nor  sheet  nor  shroud  has  he, 


And  by  his  blood-soaked  bed 
No  shriving  words  are  said. 

It  is  a  woman's  son — 

The  child  she  bare 

In  England  free  and  fair  : 

Following  the  Enghsh  drum 

Hitherward  is  he  come, 

So  to  annul 

And  break 

Himself  for  England's  sake — 

He,  too,  hath  taken  his  share. 

And  taken  it  in  full. 


Lord  of  the  Mysteries, 

Who  on  the  shining  air 

Launchest  despair. 

And  black,  by  rose  and  vine, 

Spillest  the  battle-line ; 

This  is  the  Bread,  and  this 

The  perfumed  Wine : 

No  period  dost  Thou  set 

Unto  our  dole  and  fret. 

Which,  being  of  Thee,  are  Thine  ; 

Yet,  if  we  yield  our  breath 

To  death, 


Or  keep  in  strife 

This  fripperied  fardel  life, 

Help  each  of  us  to  bear 

His  share — and  his  full  share  ! 



Lieutenant  Keen  was  "  great,"  and  yet 
He  would  look  over  the  parapet ; 
And  something  smacked  him  in  the  head, 
And  he  lay  down  as  dead  as  dead. 

He  sluttered  down,  all  proud  and  grim, 
And  we  set  to  and  buried  him  ; 
All  night  he  lay  and  took  his  rest 
With  lumps  of  Flanders  on  his  breast. 

All  day  he  lay  in  Flanders  ground 
And  rested,  rested,  good  and  sound ; 
But  when  the  dog-star  gHttered  clear 
He  calls,  "  By  Jove,  it's  dark  down  here  I 

"  Sergeant,  ain't  I  for  rounds  ?  "  sings  he, 
"  And  where's  the  bally  Company  ?  " 
And  he  was  answered,  with  respect, 
"  Here,  sir — all  present  and  correct !  " 

And — sure  as  Pm  a  man — at  night 
He  comes  along  the  trench,  as  white 


And  cheerful  as  the  blessed  saints, 
To  see  if  there  was  "  no  complaints.'* 

They  carniot  quieten  that  boy's  ghost, 
He'll  have  no  truck  with  no  *'  Last  Post," 
They  mark  him  **  Killed,"  but  you  may  swear 
He's  with  us,  be  it  foul  or  fair. 

He  goes  before  us  like  young  fire, 
A  soldier  of  his  soul's  desire  ; 
Through  the  hell-reek  that  smothers  us. 
He  fathers  us  and  mothers  us. 

When  we  have  pushed  the  German  swine 
Across  the  pretty  river  Rhine, 
Maybe  he'll  bide  where  he  was  spent 
And  Ue  down  happy  and  content. 


A  Chant  of  Aj^ection 

And  so  you  hate  us  !  You 
Hate  England — hate,  hate,  hate  ! 
A  bestial  brewage,  racked 
Out  of  the  pits  and  holes 
Of  foulness  and  deceit, 
Riots  in  your  unclean  veins  ; 
You  burn,  you  rage,  you  choke 
You  spit  and  splutter  hate 
For  England  !  ...  To  the  Russ, 
Battering  your  Eastern  doors, 
You  have  a  mind  to  turn 
The  blubbered  other  cheek  ; 
The  Gaul — your  sweet  old  friend 
And  crony  of  your  love — 
For  him,  dear  soul,  white  flags, 
Garlands  and  pretty  lures. 
Doves,  promises,  desire 
To  load  him  with  the  half 
Of  that  you  filched  away  : 
For  Belgia,  "  bleeding  hearts," 
Laments,  regrets,  "  mild  rule," 
Cheap  headstones  for  her  sons, 


And  for  her  daughters  Tou — 

That  they  may  suage  your  lusts 

And,  by  the  fireless  hearths 

You  have  made  desolate, 

Be  snugly  brought  to  bed 

Of  further  Attilas 

And  blonde  Barabbases — 

Lieges  and  "  gun  fodder  " 

For  the  top-heavy  Dolt 

Whom  ye  call  Kaiser  and  Lord.  .  . 

Yea,  holy  are  your  eyes 

And  filled  with  kindly  beams 

For  these  and  all  the  world  : 

On  Turk  and  Pole  and  Boer, 

Bulgar,  American, 

You  smile  your  panderous  smile — 

But  for  the  English— Hate  ! 

And  you  will  rend  our  Throat, 

And  you  will  bite  our  Heel, 

And  you  will  stamp  us  down  : 

You  put  an  oath  on  bronze 

(Not  paper  this  time — bronze  ! 

Which  is  not  easily  blown 

On  winds  of  treachery  !) 

You  have  made  an  oath  of  bronze, 

An  oath  no  wind  may  shake, 

An  oath  for  your  sons  and  their  sons 

One  foe  and  one  alone — 


ENGLAND  i     For  England  hate  I 
And  hate  and  hate  and  hate  ! 

How  shall  we  hate  you  back 
We  who  are  England  ;  we 
Whose  bugles  round  the  world 
Blow  to  the  punctual  dawns 
And  fail  not ;   whose  great  ships 
Traverse  the  seventy  seas 
And  always  are  at  home  ; 
Who  are  too  big,  for  hate, 
Too  careless  and  too  fine, 
Too  tempered  and  too  proud — 
How  shall  we  hate  you  back  ? 
For  when  you  see  us  whole 
Our  strength  is  an  honest  strength 
And  based  on  what  we  love  ; 
And  these  be  two  things  we  love  : 
Honour,  and  our  fair  land — 
Honour  which  is  the  crown 
And  jewel  and  lamp  and  light 
Of  them  that  are  not  clods  ; 
And  our  fair  English  land 
Peopled  with  forthright  men 
Who  make  no  talk  of  God, 
But  fear  Him  in  their  hearts, 
And  fear  nor  hate,  nor  death 
Nor  the  King's  enemies  ; — 
A  land  of  blunt,  brave  men. 
And  blessed  with  memories 


Of  old  and  high  renown  ; 
Old  Captains  who  beat  forth 
In  lofty  ships  of  war, 
Tawny  and  tarred  and  proud, 
Old  Admirals,  who  sleep 
Safe  in  the  ancient  deeps, 
And  dream  for  England  still : 
Oh,  you  shall  stamp  us  down 
When  all  the  seas  are  red 
With  the  good  English  blood, 
And  all  the  beaches  white 
With  decent  English  bones. 
And  when  our  pleasant  fields 
Are  hillocked  with  carrion  flesh 
That  cries  and  cries  to  heaven 
Of  coward  Englishmen, 
And  the  white  Yorkshire  rose 
Blushes  for  shame  of  us. 
And  her  red  sister-rose 
Blanches  for  shame  of  us. 
Then  shall  you  stamp  us  down, 
Then  shall  you  suck  the  blood 
Out  of  the  English  throats. 
And  tack  this  Isle  of  ours 
On  to  your  German  wastes  ! 
O  haters,  fools  and  blind 
Go  home  and  make  dolls*  eyes. 
And  silly  little  clocks. 
And  plaisters  for  our  gout. 
Wimples  and  crisping-pins ! 


For  now  the  outraged  stars 

Have  seen  enough  of  you, 

The  silver  moons  are  sick 

That  ye  still  blot  the  earth ; 

From  icy,  hidden  peaks 

And  far-off  fastnesses, 

From  chambers  of  the  South 

And  in  the  unconquerable  heart 

Of  England,  ware  and  wake, 

The  tempest  gathers  up 

That  shall  be  flails  for  you, 

And  break  you  in  your  place 

And  scatter  you  like  straw  ; 

Instead  of  "  Hate,  hate,  hate,'* 

You  shall  cry  "  Doom,  doom,  doom," 

And  you  shall  wail  and  mourn, 

With  none  to  comfort  you 

But  sprites  of  murdered  babes. 

And  ghosts  of  women  raped. 

And  wraiths  of  great  slain  men. 


The  Riddle 

Through  a  glass  darkly  I  can  see 
Slaves,  in  whose  blood  ran  liberty ; 

Creatures  of  anguish,  fear  and  wrong, 
Abject  of  eye,  furtive  of  tongue  ; 

Whose  joy  hath  taken  wings  and  flown, 
Whose  strength  no  longer  is  their  own  ; 

Whose  high  tower  toppled  to  the  dust, 
Whose  silk  and  steel  are  moth  and  rust ; 

Whose  name  is  water  and  shall  be 
A  byword  and  a  mockery ; 

Who  eat  the  portion  of  the  thrall, 
Whose  drink  is  vinegar  and  gall ; 

Whose  flesh  doth  suffer  whip  and  rope. 
Whose  children's  children  may  not  hope  ; 

Upon  whose  fetters  chuckling  Fate 
Hath  set  her  scornful  mark  "  Too  late." 


And  on  whose  brows  that  fronted  God 
The  leering  Beast  writes  "  Ichabod." 

Read  you  the  riddle  :  who  are  these 
So  naked  to  their  enemies — 

And  so  possessed  of  their  old  phlegm 
That  one  shall  safely  spit  on  them  ? 

I  will  not  tell  you  who  they  are ; 
It  is  enough — They  lost  the  war. 


A  Rhyme  of  Gaffer  D 

I  know  the  old  chap  very  well, 

He  called  on  us  when  I  was  young — 

They  sang  a  hymn  and  tolled  a  bell, 

"  Friend  after  friend  departs,"  they  sung. 

He  took  my  father  somewhat  quick, 
He  took  my  brother  from  his  play. 

He  took  my  dog  (a  dirty  trick — 
Though  he's  the  Gaffer,  anyway). 

After — I  didn't  mind  of  'im 
A-cuttin'  up  his  grisly  capers, 

For  years  and  years,  although  I'd  seem 
To  read  about  'im  in  the  papers. 

When  war  broke  out,  I  saw  the  bills. 

What  says,  "  Your  King  and  Country  Need  You," 
My  'eart  with  Rule  Britannia  fills 

An'  whispers,  "  Go  where  glory  leads  you." 


But  though  I  loved  the  'Uns  a  treat, 
An'  would  have  'listed  brisk  an'  'earty, 

I  always  seemed  to  get  cold  feet 
A-thinkin'  of  that  same  Old  Party. 

Till — well,  at  last,  it  had  to  be, 

My  girl,  she  says,  "  You'll  make  me  proud  !  " 
"  Wot  about  Htn  ?  "  says  I.     Says  she, 

"  Sign  up,  my  lad,  an'  'zm  be  blowed  !  " 

An'  so  I  signed  and  so  I  joined. 

An'  learnt  my  facin's  an'  my  drillin'. 

An'  how  to  wash  my  ears  behind. 
An'  always  be  alert  an'  willin'. 

An'  how  to  do  things  at  the  word. 

An'  stamp  when  'alted  or  "  attention  "-ed, 

An'  all  the  time  I  never  heard 

The  Old  Chap's  name  so  much  as  mentioned. 

Our  little  lot,  they  say,  is  "  it," 
And  not  a  bunch  to  stick  at  trifles. 

In  fact  for  'ficiency  an'  grit 

We're  next  door  to  the  Artists'  Rifles. 

An'  yet,  my  friends,  twixt  you  an'  me, 
Despite  the  bluff  they  feed  the  boys  on. 

The  Reg'ment  don't  Hke  Gaffer  D 

An',  redy,  'ates  'im  worse  than  poison. 


He  is  the  Major's  constant  dread, 
The  fly  in  the  Lieutenant's  ointment, 

Even  the  Colonel,  so  'tis  said, 

Will  meet  him  only  by  appointment. 

Oh,  he's  a  wash-out,  that  Old  Gent ! 

If  'tweren't  for  him,  so  'elp  me  never, 
We'd  all  of  us  be  well  content. 

To  fight  for  'arth  and  'ome  for  ever ! 

You  should  ha'  seen  'im  t'other  day, 
A-beckonin'  us  across  the  trenches — 

The  very  corporils  knelt  to  pray. 

An'  look  at  pictures  of  their  wenches  ! 

We  did  our  bit — oh  yes,  we  did. 
An'  he  was  in  his  element — 

He  took  a  toll  which  can't  be  hid 
Until  the  big  new  draft  is  sent. 

But  still  I  thank  my  stars,  I  does, 
('Appy  am  I  it  should  be  so) 

That  though  he  wasn't  kind  to  us 
He  weren't  no  kinder  to  the  foe.  .  .  . 

You  won't  get  rid  of  that  Old  Card, 
Leastways  till  you've  got  rid  of  sin, — 

So  here's  his  'ealth,  say  I — the  Hard 
Old  Chap  that  spoils  the  soldierin' ; 


The  Chap  that  mock^  at  mothers'  prayers, 
And  loves  to  widow  the  young  bride ; 

Yet  hurteth  only  whom  he  spares, 
And  makes  the  rest  most  satisfied. 


The  Ass 

The  enemy  without — and  he  within  ! 

You  meet  him  on  the  stairs  of  your  high  tower 

All  simpers.     At  his  nose  he  hath  a  flower, 

Upon  his  tongue  cheap  honey  ;   and  his  chin 

Waggeth  for  ever.     If  we  lose  or  win — 

Please  don't  talk  war  !     The  witty  luncheon  hour. 

The  joyous  week-end  !     Good  souls,  who  could  sour 

So  bhthe  a  spirit,  or  prick  so  sleek  a  skin  ? 

CheerfuUest  wight !     It  is  his  constant  whim 
To  beam  on  Fate.     All  that  he  asks  is  love, 
A  salad,  a  glass  of  wine,  music  that  charms, 
A  book,  a  friend,  and  "  the  blue  sky  above  " — 
And  underneath,  the  everlasting  arms 
Of  them  that  toil  and  groan  and  bleed  for  him. 


The  Diners 

"  ^hey  died  content^'*  he  said, 

And  bent  a  well-groomed  head 

Sweetly  above  the  soup  : 

"  Ahy  splendid  lads  /  "  he  sighed, 

"  And  .  .  .  (Waiter  !)  .  .  .  think  ! — they  died 

Content  /  .  .  .  (the  cantaloup 

Wasn't  quite  ripe  enough). 

Real  top-hole  lads  and  tough  ! — 

A  lesson  for  those  swine  ! — 

(Yes,  yes — uncork  the  wine  !) 

"  Top-hole,  I  tell  you  /—(pish, 
Pm  not  so  keen  on  fish  ! — 
Don't  matter — eat  it,  dear) — 
Beat  us  ?     Good  Lord  !    No  fear  ! — 
With  lads  like  that  about ! 
(Well,  well — they  call  it  trout !) 
Where  can  you  match  ^em  ?     (Oh — 
Pates  of  riz  de  veau  !) 

"  All  heroes  /—(Gad— that's  Jones- 
Wolfing  his  damned  grilled  bones — 


Pardon — but  really — well — 

Grilled  bones  for  dinner  !  .  .  .  "  Pell-MeU  "  ? 

No,  darling,  let  us  go 

And  see  the  other  show) — 

Our  chaps  are  simply  *  it '  / — 

{JSIot  just  the  weenie  St  bit  ? 

The  waiting  here's  absurd  : 

When  will  they  bring  the  bird  ?) 

"  Tlhey  died  content !  .  .  .  (Don't  look — 

There's  Mumble  and  the  duke 

And  Mrs.  M. — Of  course 

She  does  laugh  Hke  a  horse  !) — 

7hey  died  like  gentlemen  / 

(Chicken  ?   No — ancient  hen  ! — 

But  still  the  salad's  good) — 

My  God— the  British  blood  J 

"  Tou  very  nearly  kissed 

^  hat  fear  Jul  Casualty  List  ? — 

Ah,  precious,  you^ve  a  heart ! — 

(What  excellent  strawberry  tart !) — 

Tes,  Haig  'j  O.K.,  you  bet 

HeHl  smother  ^em — and  yet 

^here  must  be  sacrifice  ! — 

(I  shouldn't  risk  the  ice  !) 

"  (Coffee  for  two — no  cream  !) 
It  all  seems  like  a  dream  : 
Still,  we  shall  win  right  through, 
As  we  were  bound  to  do.  .  .  . 


^hgy  died  content ! — (Why,  sure  !- 
Z)jW-ums  want  its  liqueur  ?  .  .  . 
And,  waiter — that  cigar  ! 
And,  waiter — call  the  car  ! — 
And,  waiter — bring  the  bill ! — 
These  *  neutrals  '  make  me  ill !)  " 


July  z,  igi6 

We  were  unprepared, 

We  were  most  unwise  ; 

We  have  been  like  that 

For  centuries — 

But  we've  taught  ourselves  a  thing  or  two, 

And  we're  muddling  through. 

Twenty-three  months ! 

Twenty-three  Men  ! 

Oh,  the  muddle 

And  muddle  again  ! — 

One  can't  deny  it,  because  it's  true — 

But  we're  muddling  through. 

Shells  and  soldiers. 

Piles  and  files  ; — 

The  roar  goes  up 

On  seventy  miles  : 

We  know  now  what  we  always  knew — 

We  shall  muddle  through  ! 


Oh,  Banner  of  ours 

That  shines  in  the  wars, 

Oh,  excellent  bars 

Red,  white,  and  blue. 

With  glory  in  every  fold  of  you- 

We  shall  muddle  through  ! 


To  the  Kaiser 

[With  a  Child's  Drum] 

He  was  three  years  old,  a  mirthful,  tumbling  wight, 
To  see  your  cohorts  pass,  he  stood  at  stare. 
Unwitting,  but  pleased  ;   and  out  of  his  delight 
He  laughed  you  forth  a  Fiv^  V Angleterrg . 

Boiled  the  insulted  blood  in  the  high  veins 

Of  the  most  puissant  and  invincible 

(Whose  fathers,  spat  upon,  remarked  "  It  rains  !  ")  : 

Your  soldier  fired — rebellious  innocence  fell. 

Wherefore  we  send  you.  Conqueror,  a  child's  drum, 
And  you  shall  beat  upon  it  as  you  go 
Bloodily  stalking  to  your  crazy  doom — 
The  plaything  of  your  murdered  baby  foe. 



[First  published  in  19  lo] 

0  Fair  and  Fair  and  Fierce, 
Tigress  mother  of  ours, 
Beautiful-browed,  deep-thewed 
Passionate  mother  of  ours, 
Hearken  !  The  drums  of  doom 
Are  beaten  at  the  gate, 
And  it  is  meet  that  THOU, 
Whose  breasts  are  ice  and  steel, 
Whose  heart  is  all  a  fire. 
Should  show  us  frightened  eyes, 
And  lips  becomingly  blenched  ; 
So  say  the  very  wise. 

For  when  the  thrones  were  made 
Thine,  the  throne  of  the  thrones. 
Was  set  in  the  yeasty  seas  : 
Built  and  bastioned  and  braced, 
A  tower  of  brass,  a  rock, 
An  adamant  pyramid, 
A  strength  unshakeable ; 


And  to  thy  hands  were  given 

Power  and  dominion 

Wherever  water  is  salt, 

Wherever  a  shipboy  sings, 

Wherever  ships  may  ride  ; 

So  that  the  seas  of  the  world 

Though  they  be  seventy  times  seven, 

Are  English  seas,  and  thine ; 

Whether  it  be  the  harsh 

And  bitter  seas  of  the  north, 

Flurried  by  little  winds. 

And  pushed  by  piping  gales 

Against  the  winking  stars  ; 

Or  the  still  blue  middle  seas  ; 

Or  where  the  daffodil  moon 

Slips  down  an  amethyst  sky 

To  walk  with  silver  feet 

On  the  Southern,  soft  lagoons, 

It  is  the  English  sea.  .  .  . 

Who  is  this  that  waits 
By  the  weary  Baltic  shore. 
By  the  kneeHng  Baltic  shore, 
With  shrouded  arm  and  hand, 
And  a  hand  whereon  there  gleams 
A  glove  of  impudent  mail  ? 
Behind  him  stretch  afar 
The  pleasant,  placid  spas. 
Fattened  with  English  aches  ; 
And  the  four-three  factories, 


And  the  reek  of  the  dumper's  fires, 

And  the  pretty  river  Rhine 

(Which  owes  so  much  to  Cooks), 

And  rows,  and  rows,  and  rows 

Of  flat-head  soldier  men. 

And  the  works  of  Schichau  and  Krupp, 

And  for  a  sign  in  the  blue, 

The  tender  himmelblau. 

The  good,  grey  Count's  balloons  ! 

Do  you  know  this  singular  Lord, 
This  humorous,  hearty  Prince, 
Whose  cry  is  "  Peace,  Peace,  Peace," 
Abroad,  and  at  home  "  War,  War  "  ; 
Who  preaches  through  the  day 
With  olive  twigs  in  his  hair. 
And  rises  in  the  night 
To  fan  the  secret  forge  ; 
Who  says,  "  Why  should  we  fight  ? 
Prithee,  why  should  we  fight  ? 
What  cause  have  we  to  fight  ? 
Are  we  not  friends,  please  God, 
And  Customers  ?  .  .  .  My  glass 
Is  raised  to  you  and  Peace 
Hurra,  Hurra,  Hurra  !  " 

Who  says  again,  "  My  arms 
Must  flourish  on  the  seas, 
My  arms  and  mine  alone 
If  you  wish  a  place  in  the  sun  ; 
As  for  the  one  in  our  path 

The  one  whom  we  all  so  love, 
By  nineteen  hundred  and  twelve 
I  shall  be  ready  for  HER  ! ! 
I  have  promised  you  your  Day — 
Hurra,  Hurra,  Hurra  !  " 

It  is  nineteen  hundred  and  ten 

And  the  Seas  are  English  seas, 

They  will  be  EngHsh  seas 

Till  they  shall  give  up  Drake 

And  the  thousand  English  hearts 

Which  have  made  rich  the  depths  : 

Until  they  shall  be  rolled 

Together  like  a  scroll 

They  shall  be  English  seas. 

We  sleep  sound  in  our  beds  ; 

We  fear  no  fist  of  mail ; 

We  fear  no  withered  arm  ; 

We  are  not  afraid  of  Krupp 

Nor  yet  of  Blohm  and  Voss. 

We  wish  you  the  Devil's  joy 

Of  all  you  have  hidden  and  built ; 

It  is  nineteen  hundred  and  ten. 

We  have  simple  words  for  you  : 

In  the  English  history  books 

There  is  Eighteen  Hundred  and  Five  ; 

We  say  to  you  when  you  pray, 

Thank  Heaven  if  we  do  not  write 

In  the  English  history  books 

With  beautiful  German  blood 

Nineteen  Hundred  and  Twelve. 


Towards  the  Reckon 


With  tongue  of  oil  and  breath  of  myrrh 
They  bid  us  turn  the  other  cheek, 
And  mark  the  blessing  for  the  meek, 

The  mourner  and  the  peacemaker. 

They  counsel,  "  Love  your  enemies  ; 

Do  good  to  them  who  bear  you  hate  ; 

Agree  thou  quickly  !  "   and  they  prate 
Of  being,  with  the  great  wisdom,  wise. 

"  Of  Eye  for  Eye  and  Tooth  for  Tooth 
None  righteously  exacts  the  debt ; 
It  is  forbidden  !  "  they  say — and  yet 

They  publish  only  half  the  truth. 

And  by  their  speech  the  grinning  Host 

Which  hath  Blasphemed  takes  lease  to  live. 
Harden  our  hearts,  lest  we  forgive 

The  Sin  against  the  Holy  Ghost ! 



"  One  shall  be  taken  and  the  other  left  " — 
'Tis  so  with  men,  and  even  so  with  forts  ; 
One  falls,  another  stands — the  strong  cohorts 
Beat  vainly  on  it  in  rage  of  divers  sorts — 

One  shall  be  taken  and  the  other  left. 

One  shall  be  taken  and  the  other  left — 

Behold  the  Bride  that  singeth  through  the  gloom, 
And  waiteth  still  with  scorn  the  German  groom, 
And  fears  not  to  be  given  away  by  Doom  ! — 

One  shall  be  taken  and  the  other  left. 

One  shall  be  taken  and  the  other  left — 
O  eyes  of  Hell  and  fronts  of  bloody  brass, 
France,  by  her  Lilies,  sweareth  ye  may  not  pass 
Unto  her — though  the  bar  were  brittlest  glass  ! — 

One  shall  be  taken  and  the  other  left. 


The  Dublin  Rising 

Our  right — and  your  old  wrongs. 

With  men's  and  angels'  tongues 
We  did  discourse.     Alas — 
The  tinkling  cymbal  and  the  sounding  brass  ! 

We  "  ruled."     You  mourned  and  planned. 

We  had  gifts  to  understand 
All  knowledge,  all  dreams,  all  star-sad  mystery ; 
Mountains  we  moved,  while  you  made  prophecy. 

We  doubted  not.     Your  Eyes 

Were  set  on  Paradise. 
Yet  always,  and  most  grievously. 
Both  of  us  missed  the  "  greatest  "  of  "  these  three." 



Your  fair  dead — our  fair  dead. 

Now,  by  each  fallen  head 
And  each  rebuking  wraith, 
Swear  we  another  Faith. 

Your  night  of  tears — our  night. 

But,  by  the  unquenchable  Light 
Toward  which,  blindly,  we  grope, 
Behold,  another  Hope ! 

Our  agony — and  yours. 

Yea,  by  the  Passionate  Hours 
And  the  Exceeding  Bitter  Cry, 
Do  we  still  lack  ...  the  Charity  ! 



Back  again  !  Back  again  !  Out  o*  blood  and  mud  and  rain  ; 
Out  o*  gun-sound  .  .  .  God  a'mighty  ! 
Out  o'  Blazes  and  home  to  "  Blighty  "  ! — 
Broke  right  up  and  full  o'  pain, 
But  back  again — back  again  \ 

Back  again  !  Back  again  !  By  an  extry  special  train 
With  the  Red  Cross  on  the  panels — 
Snuggled  in  me  nice  new  flannels — 
Like  the  blinkin'  King  o'  Spain — 
Back  again  !   Back  again  ! 

Back  again !    Back  again !    Clapham   Junction  plain  as 

plain ! — 
Just  as  grimy,  just  as  gloomy, 
Just  as  home-like,  and  as  roomy — 
Dead  on  time — we  can*t  complain — 
Back  again  !  Back  again  ! 

Back  again  !   Back  again  !  Waterloo  and  rows  o'  men 
Down  the  platform  standing  ready 
For  to  lift  us  quick  and  steady — 


Nurses  smiling — "  How's  the  pain  ?  " 
Back  again  !   Back  again  ! 

Back  again  !  Back  again  !  London  town  and  home  again- 
Never  knew  how  much  they  loved  us, — 
In  the  ambulance  they've  shoved  us — 
Nearly  numbered  with  the  slain 
But  back  again — back  again  ! 


Come  Young  Lads  First 

Sergeant  went  a-walking 

Wi'  ribbons  in  his  cap, 
"  Ho-ho,"  says  he,  "  His  Majesty 

Wants  just  another  chap, 
An'  as  'tis  plain,  for  married  men 

He  no  more  cares  a  rap, 

Come  young  lads  first !  " 

Wherefore  the  bairn  I  suckled 
Goes  now  in  khaki  drest ; 

So  young  is  he,  that  he  med  be 
Still  cosy  from  my  breast ; 

But  he  marches  with  his  chin  up 
An'  his  chest  out,  like  the  rest, 
Come  young  lads  first ! 

Old  Squire  says,  "  Oh  yes,  oh  yes, 
'Twill  do  him  worlds  of  good  "  ; 

An'  parson  says  that  losing  bairns 
If  rightly  understood 

Is  blessed,  an'  'tis  sweet,  he  says. 

For  th'  King  to  shed  your  blood — 
Come  young  lads  first ! 


"  Abram,"  he  says,  "  gave  Isaac, 

As  writ  in  Holy  Word, 
An'  Mary  broke  the  precious  box 

At  the  feet  of  our  dear  Lord  ; 
So  you  must  give  your  boy,"  he  says, 

"  To  carry  England's  sword. 

Come  young  lads  first  1  " 

They  speak  you  fair  do  gentlemen, 

But  not  more  fair  or  free 
Than  my  young  son,  who's  just  the  one 

His  father  used  to  be  ; 
And  when  I  said  he  med  get  killed 

He  angers  up  at  me, 

"  Come  young  lads  first !  " 

For  he's  no  lad  that  hides  his  mind 

An'  he's  no  lad  that  feigns  ; 
An'  while  he  spoke  my  heart  came  back 

As  easy  of  its  pains 
As  when  his  father  courted  me 

Along  the  scented  lanes — 

Come  young  lads  first ! 

A  woman  has  her  love  (it  is 

Her  glory  and  her  crown) 
Which  many  waters  cannot  quench 

An'  the  great  floods  cannot  drown  ; 
But  men  have  that  which  passes  love 

When  they  hear  the  bugles  blown — 
Come  young  lads  first ! 


An'  so  the  bairn  I  suckled 
Goes  now  in  khaki  drest, 

So  young  is  he,  that  he  med  be 
Still  cosy  from  my  breast ; 

An'  he  marches  with  his  chin  up 
An'  his  chest  out,  Hke  the  rest- 
Come  young  lads  first ! 


The  Rhyme  of  the  Beast 

Lo,  the  Beast  that  rioteth, 
Sick  with  hate  and  coveting- 

To  the  sons  of  men  he  saith, 
I  will  show  you  a  new  thing. 

This,  the  Earth,  which  was  the  Lord's, 

Prodigal  of  rose  and  vine, 
I  will  desolate  with  swords 

Till  it  own  that  it  is  mine. 

Every  brow  must  bear  my  brand 
Every  wrist  must  wear  my  steel, 

Every  throat  be  for  my  hand. 
Every  neck  be  for  my  heel. 

I  will  thrust  into  your  souls 

Unnamed  terrors  and  despairs- 
Populate  the  air  with  ghouls 
And  the  sea  with  murderers. 


While  I  prove  that  war  is  war, 

Saints  shall  mourn  and  angels  weep, 

Star  commiserate  with  star, 

Deep  cry  out  to  shuddering  deep  ; 

Tigers  marvel  in  their  lust 
At  the  tale  of  blood  and  pain, 

Pity  move  the  insensate  dust, 
And  the  very  stones  complain. 

I  will  twist  the  tongue  of  Truth 
Till  her  speech  be  nought  but  lies, 

I  will  kill  the  faith  of  Youth, 
And  the  hope  in  Age's  eyes. 

Not  the  altar,  nor  the  tomb. 
Nor  the  Sufferer  on  the  Tree, 

Nor  the  babe  within  the  womb 
Shall  be  sacred  unto  me. 

I  will  rend  and  rage  and  cog, 
Rob  and  ravish  till  I  die ; 

I  will  be  the  Supreme  Hog, 
And  the  world  shall  be  my  sty. 




"  Our  whole  High  Seas  Fleet,  without  any  aid  from  coast 
batteries,  has  delivered  a  victorious  blow  against  the  most 
powerful  navy  in  the  world,  .  .  .  The  great  sea  fight  so 
eagerly  expected  on  both  sides  in  the  North  Sea  for  twenty- 
two  months  has  been  fought  out." — Tageblatt. 

This  is  your  "  victory  "  ! 

We  who  brook  no  defeat, 
On  any  sea, 

Being  of  the  old  sea-mind, 
Smile  the  sea-smile,  and  find 
Our  very  losses  sweet. 

Of  your  "  victorious  blow  " 
We  give  you  the  full  joy  : 
Be  glad  !   We  know 

Our  strengths  majestical- 
Our  every  admiral, 
Our  every  sailor  boy. 


Yet  is  it  not  "  fought  out  "  : 

Lick  you  your  wounds,  good  friends, 
And  shout  and  shout — 
You  will  not  shake 
Nelson,  or  Hood,  or  Drake, 
Or  the  appointed  ends. 


For  Whom  it  may  Concern 

Ye  know  that  Freedom  from  her  height 
Laughs  on  the  world  in  Fate's  despite  : 

Here  is  her  comfort  set : — 

England  is  England  yet. 

Ye  know  that  all  the  fronts  of  War 
Shine  with  the  effulgent  English  star  ; 
Ye  know  whose  is  the  blood 
That  baffled  and  withstood 

Old  tyrants  ;  and  full  well  ye  know 
There  never  can  be  shock  or  blow 
To  hurt  more  than  a  reed 
The  panoply  of  your  breed. 

How  shall  you  in  such  armour  girt 
Palter  behind  a  woman's  skirt, 
Or  that  man's  pledge,  or  this 
Man's  broken  promises  ? 


While  the  slipped  flower  of  the  race 
Comports  him  in  the  veteran's  place — 
His  shroud  (oh,  Fearlessness  !) 
Worn  like  a  wedding  dress. 

You  will  not  grieve  those  emulous  dead 

Boy  heritors  of  goodlihead, 

Who  haply  loved  their  lives 
Much  as  you  love  your  wives. 


In  the  Train 

There's  a  soldier, 
By  gad!   Yes  !— 

See  her  gi'  me 
That  there  kiss  ? — 

All  the  people 
Crowdin'  by : 

An'  her  a  maid 
As  shy  as  shy  ! — 

Kiss'd  me  fair 

An'  plain  an'  free 
Before  the  blessed 

Company — 

Whisper'd  when 
I  bent  my  head — 

Mustn't  tell  you 
What  she  said  ! 


Little  'un, 

But  very  smart, 
Stands  no  higher 

Than  my  heart ! 

An*  that  straight 
An'  unafraid, — 

Like  a  corporal 
On  parade ! 

Smiles,  an'  loves  you 
With  her  eyes : 

Steadies  you, 
And  keeps  you  wise 

Learns  you  all 

There  is  to  know  : 
Makes  you  feel 

It's  good  to  go  ! 

Women's  funny — 

So  they  are ! 
But  who  taught  'em 

About  war  ? 

Where'd  they  learn 
Their  bit  of  drill  ? 

Who  is  it  took  'em 
Through  the  mill  ? 

And  gave  'em  grit 
Enough  for  ten. 

An'  sense  to  share  it 
With  the  men  ? 

An'  made  'em  so 
They'd  rather  die 

Than  let  a  soldier 
See  'em  cry  ? 

An'  gives  'em  strength 
And  nerve  and  grace 
To  look  the  postman 
In  the  face  ? 

Oh,  don't  forget  it, 

Mother's  son — 
They're  soldiers,  soldiers 

Every  one ! 

Soldiers  loving 
Them  that's  gone, 

Soldiers,  soldiers 
"  Holding  on  "— 

Proudest  Regiment 

Ever  known, — 
Let  us  call  'em 

"  The  Lord's  Own." 



The  parson  to  the  padre  said, 

"  Once,  in  a  book,  these  words  I  read  : 

*  If  any  man  take  thy  coat ;  why,  go 
And  offer  him  thy  cloak  also.'  " 

I  heard  the  lump  of  shrapnel  drone 

At  midnight  in  the  shattered  bone  : 

"  Let  us  remember  that  sweet  verse 
Which  bids  us  bless  who  brings  the  curse.'* 

And  from  his  grave  one  calleth  clear : 
"  When  I  come  home  again,  my  dear, 

And  my  head  on  your  bosom  lies, 
We  will  forgive  our  enemies." 



Dulce  ei  decorum  est  pro  patria  mori 

You  who  are  still  and  white 

And  cold  like  stone  ; 
For  whom  the  unfailing  light 

Is  spent  and  done  ; 

For  whom  no  more  the  breath 
Of  dawn,  nor  evenfall 

Nor  Spring,  nor  love,  nor  death 
Matter  at  all ; 

Who  were  so  strong  and  young 

And  brave  and  wise. 
And  on  the  dark  are  flung 

With  darkened  eyes ; 

Who  roystered  and  caroused 

But  yesterday. 
And  now  are  dumbly  housed 

In  stranger  clay ; 


Who  valiantly  led, 

Who  followed  valiantly, 
Who  knew  no  touch  of  dread 

Of  that  which  was  to  be  ; 

Children  that  were  as  nought 

Ere  ye  were  tried, 
How  have  ye  dared  and  fought, 

Triumphed  and  died  ! 

Yea,  it  is  very  sweet 

And  decorous 
The  omnipotent  Shade  to  meet 

And  flatter  thus. 




I  saw  a  flake 

Of  the  burning  lake 

Caught  in  an  angel  breath. 

And  blown  upon 

Until  it  shone 

Brighter  than  love  and  death 

Through  the  dark  it  sped 
Like  a  star  that  bled 
A-kindle  ;   and  I  knew 
That  heaven  and  hell, 
O,  Miracle, 
Had  made  the  soul  of  you. 


From  the  Chimney  Corner 

When  we  are  dead 

And  newly  buried, 

The  worm,  'tis  said 

Out  of  a  pity  doth  creep 

Unto  the  ear  of  our  sleep, 

And  with  her  Httle  voice 

Singeth  a  note  or  so, 

As  near  's  she  can  like  the  lark. 

To  help  us  in  the  dark  : 

Saying,  "  Rejoice,  rejoice, 

For  all  shall  yet  be  well !  " 

From  Death  who  is  terrible 

(Yet  hath  no  sting), 

And  from  the  grave 

Which  bindeth  us 

(Yet  hath  no  victory), 

Physicians  might  not  save 

Old  parson.     Thus, 

He  lay 

Down  in  the  churchyard  clay  ; 


And  I  have  heard  folk  say- 
That  on  the  second  day 
The  kind  worm  passeth  that  way 
And  sidleth  up  to  him, 
And  doth  her  best  to  sing, 
Saying,  "  Be  unafraid, 
'Tis  mortal  lonesome  here, 
Meanly  thy  bed  is  made, 
Thou  lack'st  both  light  and  cheer 
And  shalt,  for  many  a  year  : 
Yet  lift  up  th'  heart — endure, 
For  the  reward  is  sure  !  '* — 

*  Um,"  sniffs  old  parson,  "  two  of  a  trade  !  " 


The  Witling 

An  old  poor  rogue  went  down  to  the  Ferry, 
Merry  as  merry. 

"  Tho'  some  do  die  on  the  gallows  tree, 

God  send  they  dye  a  good  colour !  "  quoth  he. 

"  For  just  as  many  years  they'll  be  dead 
As  who  died  snug  i'  the  'spital  bed  ! 

"  And  Moll  and  Doll  and  the  Pope  of  Rome 
La^  la — each  goeth  the  same  way  home  1 

"  And  as  for  doleful  dumps,  why — drat  'em  !  — 
As  Misery  sang — *  Cheer  up  for  Chatham  ! '  " 



"  Boatman,  thou  tarriest,"  he  saith, 

"  'Tes  piercin'  here  by  thy  black  staith ; 

"  And  I  ha'  found  nor  crust  nor  apple 
Since  yon  loon  got  me  by  the  thrapple. 

"  Nor  brandy-wine  is  brought  to  cheer  me- 
A  dead  man  hath  small  luck,  I  fear  me. 

"  Boatman,  what  meaneth  thy  ill  look  ? 
Why  burns  the  ripple  thou  hast  strook  ? 

"  Why  is  the  hand  thou  touchest  me  with 
Unkinder  than  was  that  of  Death  ?  " 


The  Little  Old  Knife 

With  my  little  old  Knife 

I  killed  the  paramour  ; 

Her  bosom  was  a  soft  flower, 

She  had  a  girdle  of  vair 

And  ruby  combs  in  her  hair  : 
"  Come  hither,"  calls  she,  "  thou  old  wife," 

Flirting  her  fan  in  the  bower, 
"  And  pick  up  our  kerchy,"  calls  she ; 

"  An  't  please  you,  madam,"  quod  I — 

"  And,  madam  .  .  .  once  only  we  die 

So  here's  good  once  for  ye 

And  everlasting  rest — 
Both  from  my  little  old  knife  !  " 

With  my  little  old  knife— 

Ahey  !   she  looked  and  smiled 

Like  a  sleepy  three-year  child. 

And  gaped,  and  drooped,  and  was  dead  ; 

Only  a  trickle  of  red 

Slipt  down  her  heavenly  breast  : 

"  Thus  endeth,"  quod  I,  "  a  strife. 


An  ache,  a  fragrance,  a  power, 
A  shame,  a  wisdom,  a  mesh, 
A  passion  and  rose  of  flesh, 

All  finished  at  my  hour 

And  all  with  my  little  old  knife  !  " 



River  of  rivers,  that  dost  lave  the  might 
And  pomps  and  ships  of  England  ;  if  the  white 
Dawns  be  upon  thee,  or  thou  goest  dight 
In  armour  of  the  sun  ;   or  where  at  night 
With  mirrored  stars  and  lamps  of  chrysolite, 
Thou  wooes t  this  London  to  the  ancient  plight, 
Thou  shalt  be  goodly  for  the  English  sight 
And  proud  till  Time  shall  falter  in  his  flight. 

Tiber,  Euphrates,  Tmolus  from  the  height, 
Tigris  and  Nilus,  streams  of  old  delight. 
And  Abbana  and  Pharphar  which  were  bright 
For  queens  by  swart  Damascus — these  invite 
Words  from  the  dreamer  and  the  Abderite  ; 
But  thou  art  Thames — glorious  in  their  despite. 


The  Ragle 

They  have  him  in  a  cage 

And  little  children  run 

To  offer  him  well-meant  bits  of  bun, 

And  very  common  people  say,  "  My  word  ! 

Ain't  he  a  'orrible  bird  !  " 

And  the  smart,  "  How  absurd  ! 

Poor,  captive,  draggled,  downcast  lord  of  the  air  !  " 

Steadfast  in  his  despair, 
He  doth  not  rage ; 
But  with  unconquerable  eye 
And  soul  aflame  to  fly, 
Considereth  the  sun. 



With  thunder  shod 
The  hills  be  trod 
That  the  children  of  God 
Should  quake  at  his  nod ; 
He  had  bolt  and  rod 
For  angel  and  clod 
And  he  wrote  on  their  foreheads  ,"  Ichabod." 

And  in  his  eyes 
Was  enterprise 
Still  to  devise 
Smooth  subtleties 
And  perjuries 
For  the  King  of  Flies ; 
And  goodness  and  truth  were  his  enemies. 

We  toil  and  spin, 
Held  by  the  gin 
And  web  of  sin 
He  catcheth  us  in — 
This  prance,  this  grin 
With  the  felon  chin — 
This  Heads-you-lose-and-tails-I-win  I 



"  ^he  damned  Psalm-singing  old  humbug  " 

He  had  the  heart  of  love, 
The  heart  of  love  and  steel, 
The  unshaken  English  heart 
That  can  be  merciless, 
That  can  be  merciful. 

He  looked  upon  the  State 

And  saw  that  it  was  foul. 

"  It  shall  be  cleansed,"  he  said, 

"  Straightway  it  shall  be  cleansed  : 

Yea,  even  with  tears  and  blood  I  " 

The  People  loved  him  not. 
The  Princes  mocked  at  him  ; 
With  Sword  and  Book  he  strode 
Among  them  like  a  tower  ; 
"  /  am  your  Lord,"  he  said. 


He  woke  the  people's  strength 
To  know  itself  and  fear 
No  other  strengths  that  were  ; 
For  Princes  of  all  time 
He  read  the  lesson  out. 

For  England  hath  he  set 
The  way,  the  immutable  plan, 
The  rule  of  Empery  : 
"  If  ye  would  rule  abroad 
Be  fitly  ruled  at  home." 


To  the  Little  Muse 

Out  of  the  light  of  the  age, 
An  age  of  superior  things, 
I  call  unabashed  unto  thee 
O  little  Muse  of  the  Valley. 

Scorn  for  the  simple  pipe, 

The  trivial,  trite  tune 

That  a  man  may  make  in  his  youth, 

Is  the  fashion  with  all  the  world  ; 

A  fashion  dear  to  the  cheap 
Young  supercilious  scribe, 
Also  to  wits  and  wags 
And  every  honest  fool. 

So  that  thy  numerous  sons. 
Sired  by  the  windy  Spring, 
Bristle,  or  blush,  or  blench 
At  a  hint  of  their  parentage. 


But  little  Muse  of  ours, 

They  err  who  have  shame  in  thee 

And  grievously  do  they  err 

Who  bandy  thy  name  when  they  scoff. 

For  comely  art  thou,  and  wise 
And  affluent  of  heart ; 
White  are  thy  feet  by  the  brooks 
And  pleasant  thy  voice  in  the  vines. 

Thy  Sister,  the  beautiful-brow'd 
Calm  friend  of  them  that  endure, 
Loveth  thee  from  her  heights, 
And  wherefore  not  we,  who  are  naught  ? 



Audrey  knoweth  naught  of  books, 
Naught  to  captivate  the  wise  ; 

But  the  soul  of  goodness  looks 
Through  the  quiet  of  her  eyes. 

She  can  bake  and  she  can  knit, 
Cunningly  she  wields  the  broom. 

All  her  pleasure  is  to  sit 

In  a  neatly  order'd  room.  .  .  . 

Touchstone,  shaping  a  career. 
Shines  at  each  exclusive  house  : 

"  Such  a  clever  man,  my  dear. 
Tied  to — just  *  a  country  mouse  ' ! 

"  Married  ere  he  dream'd  of  us^ 
Ere  he  knew  what  gifts  he  had — 

Strange  that  Fate  should  yoke  him  thus^ 
And  very,  very,  very  sad  !  " 


Touchstone  (let  them  mark  it  well), 
When  the  social  round  is  trod, 

Bored  by  dame  and  demoiselle. 
Goes  home  softly,  thanking  God. 


The  Yeoman 

Across  the  counties  came  the  sound 
Of  war-drums  that  his  fathers  knew ; 

He  had  no  heart  for  horse  or  hound, 
He  said,  "  Am  I  not  English  too  ?  " 

All  the  old  ardours  in  his  blood 

Leapt  hke  the  flame  from  smitten  steel. 
And,  to  himself  revealed,  he  stood 

A  buttress  of  the  common  weal. 

So  that  if  cities  %vf^  their  pride 
To  strengthen  England's  righteous  arm, 

Men,  too,  are  bred  by  countryside 
And  quiet  grange  and  folded  farm. 



The  Finer  Spirit 


I  saw  the  painted  worlds  go  by, 

And  wonder'd  what  great  good  could  lie 

Beneath  that  dreadful  pageantry. 

What  lamp  of  excellent  brimming  light 
Hath  kept  the  immemorial  night, 
And  watches  on,  in  Time's  despite  ? 

What  soul  of  saving  sweetness  lends 
The  affable  touch  to  things,  and  blends 
That  which  begins  and  that  which  ends  ? 


And  one,  whose  look  shone  kindness,  ran 
And  fetch'd  his  sheaf  of  charts — the  plan 
"  Mark'd  out,"  he  said,  "  by  God  for  Man. 


"  Look  thou  !  Thus  far,  and  thus,  the  cleat 
Seas  sparkle  ;   thou  mayst  pray,  and  steer 
Thy  craft  with  knowledge  here,  and  here  ; 

"  But  by  the  vasty  marges  loom 
God's  well-set  darknesses  ;   the  womb 
Bears  not  the  man  that  skills  this  gloom." 


Another,  wisely,  "  We  are  sure 

Of  consciousness  and  some  small  store 

Of  facts,  as  *  two  and  two  make  four.' 

"  So  nerved  and  lamp'd  may  Reason  spell 
The  systems  out,  and  learn  to  tell 
The  purport  of  the  inmost  cell ; 

"  But  ever  as  she  goes,  she  sees 
In  new  and  old  simplicities 
The  old,  invincible  mysteries." 


Also  another,  "  Wine  and  wheat 
And  oil  have  we,  and  liberal  heat 
Of  faithful  suns  ;  our  pulses  beat 


"  With  warmth  and  warm  affections — Love 
The  chief — and  like  a  blessed  dove 
Joy  winnows  round  us  as  we  move  ; 

"  And  solace  cometh  for  the  stroke 
And  strength  to  render  dear  the  yoke — 
These  are  enough  for  honest  folk." 

Yet  who,  that  waits  for  happier  skies, 
Or  searches  with  assiduous  eyes, 
Or  dreams  among  the  butterflies, 

Hath  never  felt  the  effulgence  full 
From  off  the  face  of  things,  and  all 
The  sweetness  sicken  into  gall  ? 

Hath  never  heard  the  implacable  blast 
Crying  afar  through  void  and  vast. 
And  stood  up  shuddering  and  aghast  ? 


Yon  planet,  set  out  lustrously 
Upon  the  tinted  dawn,  may  be 
Some  dull  immutable  agony, 


Heavy  with  hideousness,  and  fell 
And  terrible  tribes  that  quake  and  yell 
For  ever  on  the  slags  of  hell ; 

Creatures  to  whom  death  is  a  vain 

Vague  legend  of  the  prime,  ere  pain 

Bore  down  and  smote  them  heart  and  brain. 


And  this  dear  earth  of  green  and  grey 
And  gold  and  blue — our  broad  highway 
And  pleasant  inn  whereat  we  stay 

As  travellers  lighted  luckily 
On  goodly  cheer  and  company 
And  chambers  lavendered — may  be 

Out  of  the  placid  ages  come 
With  all  its  load  of  life  and  bloom 
Jump  to  the  verge  of  some  wild  doom. 


She  called  to  me  across  the  flood 

Of  finish'd  years,  "  Believe  thy  blood 

Which  runs  a  living  faith  in  good  !  " 


She  called  to  me  out  of  the  still 
And  molten  noon,  "  Believe  thy  will 
Which,  having  force,  would  banish  ill !  " 

She  called  to  me  out  of  the  day- 
Next  to  be  born,  "  Believe  the  clay 
Which  sends  up  goodness  from  decay  ! 


"  Here  is  the  earnest  to  make  whole 

The  parted  circlet  of  the  soul, 

To  crown  thy  mirth  and  star  thy  dole ; 

"  Here  is  the  essence  that  hath  kept 
The  centuries  sweet,  and  raced  and  leapt 
In  veins  that  withered,  eyes  that  wept ; 

"  Here  is  the  jewel  for  the  brow 
The  beam  to  set  the  light  aglow 
And  to  enrose  the  pinnacled  snow. 

"  I  am  the  crimson  of  the  rose, 

The  fair  quick  flame  the  crocus  shows. 

The  spice  that  with  the  blossom  goes, 

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"  The  witchery  of  the  thrush's  tune, 
The  surge  of  March,  the  flash  of  June, 
The  marvel  of  the  reapers'  moon, 

"  And  where  the  winter  aches  in  white 
And  mists,  I  haunt  the  doubtful  light 
While  dwindling  suns  loom  red  and  bright ; 


"  I  am  the  strength  of  all  the  dead, 
The  wisdom  and  the  goodlihead 
And  pith  of  what  they  did  and  said ; 

"  I  am  the  beauty  that  hath  stood 

Bodied,  like  a  beautitude 

In  soft,  calamitous  womanhood 

"  From  the  beginning  ;  and  the  Rest 
Of  Saints  am  I,  and  all  the  blest 
Rapture  of  bosoms  babes  have  press'd ; 


"  And  Man,  the  spirit  and  the  dust 
The  god  that  wears  the  chains,  and  must 
Be  still  the  creature,  and  still  trust 


"  He  is  not  wholly  fool  and  slave, 
And  live  half  angel  and  half  knave 
To  sup  with  Death  and  fat  the  grave  ; 

"  Man  that  is  nothing,  yet  divine 
Sifting  the  creeds  for  one  sure  sign 
Hath  sureness  in  a  look  of  mine  !  " 



Since  wheels  for  the  breaking  of  bone 

And  hooks  for  the  tearing  of  flesh, 

And  pully  and  rack 

And  screws  to  crack 

Sinew  and  joint  are  forgone  ; 

Shall  Torture  fail  of  her  own 

And  lose  the  admired  moan 

Of  thrice-slain  agony, 

Or  miss  from  her  ancient  mesh 

The  victim  fair  and  fresh  ? 

Nay,  by  the  Rood,  not  she  ! 

Ablaze  with  glittering  skill. 
On  floors  of  anguish,  still 
Plieth  she  pincer  and  bowl, 
And  she  hath  profuse  prey  ; 
And  all  night  and  all  day. 
Though  bodies  go  safe  and  whole, 
She  thanks  God  for  the  soul. 



Of  trivial  tide  and  chance, 

And  dribs  of  circumstance, 

Flourish  and  feint  and  threat, 

Swords  that  are  never  wet, 

Daggers  which  only  scratch. 

Springes  not  made  to  catch, 

Faleshood  none  uttereth, 

Mumblings  of  quick  apology 

For  prettily  hinted  infamy. 

And  dirty  hands  in  nice  clean  genteel  gloves. 

Sick  was  he  unto  death. 

Dear  knows. 

He  hath  seen  his  share 

Of  fribbles  and  fret 

And  seeming  overthrows ; 

Hence  sayeth  he  this  prayer 

To  men  and  destiny  : 

Let  me  he  stricken  fair 

With  infallacious  blows. 


Iris  and  the  Water-Ljilies 

All  hidden  like  a  jewel  'mid  great  hills 
There  lies  a  clear-eyed  lake,  girt  round  with  shade 
Of  willow  and  green  hazel,  and  behind. 
Forests  of  oak  and  fir  stretch  out  and  climb 
Unto  the  topmost  sunshine  of  the  heights. 

Here  at  the  narrower  end,  a  narrow  arm 
Runs  deep  into  the  shadows  of  the  wood. 
Losing  itself  in  reedy  lonesomeness  ; 
Dark  wilding  weeds,  lovers  of  glamour,  creep 
Along  its  shallow  edges,  and,  in  mid-stream 
Like  faery  shallops  waiting  for  moonrise, 
A  fleet  of  pallid  water-lilies  sleeps. 

At  daybreak,  when  the  lake  was  flushed  and  strewn 
With  red,  and  gold,  and  purple  ;   and  the  wood 
Shimmer'd  with  opal  tintings,  hither  came 
The  wind-footed  Iris — Juno's  messenger — 
Bound  on  her  Autumn  task  to  kill  the  bloom  ; 


Upon  her  brow  duskily  beat  and  throbbed 
Three  lambent  starlets,  and  her  filmy  hair 
Stream'd  in  a  shining  tangle  after  her. 
Like  starshine  from  a  star,  ethereally, 
Or  as  some  sweet  soul  drifting  in  bliss,  she  slid 
Down  the  hushed  dawn  to  where  those  lilies  were ; 
And  seeing  them  in  their  white  loveliness. 
Cold,  pallid,  pure,  she  hovered  over  them. 
And  smiled  upon  them,  as  a  mother  smiles 
Upon  her  sleeping  children.     Then  the  thought 
That  she  must  slay  them,  even  as  the  rest, 
Shot  through  her  being  like  sharp  agony. 
And  lifting  up  her  voice  in  golden  speech. 
She  cried  upon  the  queen  of  gods  and  men  : 

"  0  Juno,  in  thy  heaven. 

Give  ear  and  pity  me  ; 
Lo,  my  young  heart  is  riven 

With  this  I  do  for  Thee, 
Wherefore  I  pray  a  respite  from  my  task. 

"  In  valleys  where  the  sun 

Had  pitched  his  golden  tent. 
As  by  their  beauty  won 

And  bound  to  sloth,  he  meant 
To  rest  himself  from  travel  evermore  ; 

"  Vales  where  the  white  dove's  wing 
Smote  ever  golden  airs. 

1 86 

And  she  that  doth  so  sing 

Mounting  her  sunny  stairs 
Met  neither  cloud  nor  shadow  all  the  way  ; 

"  Over  the  quiet  top 

Of  a  thyme-laden  hill, 
Where  drowsy  bees  did  drop 

Into  cool  cups,  to  fill 
Their  pouches,  or  to  loiter  out  the  hours  ; 

"  Where  upward  from  the  corn 

The  reapers'  voices  rang, 
And  on  the  airs  were  borne 

Light  songs  the  maidens  sang 
In  the  hill-vineyards  as  the  hours  slipt  past — 

"  Thither  I  went  to  tear 

The  glory  from  men's  sight 
And  over  all  that's  fair 

Have  cast  the  seed  of  blight ; 
And  this  my  deed  shall  bring  me  naught  but  pain. 

"  For  the  sweet  days  will  pass. 

The  sun  will  leave  his  camp. 
The  dead  leaves  rot  i'  the  grass. 

The  airs  wax  chill  and  damp, 
The  white  dove  shiver  and  the  lark  grow  dumb  ; 


"  And  they  that  reaped  the  corn 

And  laughed  among  the  vines, 
Shall  crouch  themselves  forlorn, 

Soon  as  the  frostwork  shines 
And  wish  the  sun-time  were  come  back  again. 

"  Therefore,  I  pray  thee,  give 

These  lilies  of  the  lake. 
Yet  further  days  to  live. 

So  that  the  world  may  make 
Some  solace  of  them  when  all  else  is  dead. 

"  And  if  thou  wilt  not — why 

I  break  my  faith  with  thee  ! 
These  are  not  meet  to  die 

Being  so  fair  to  see. 
And  they  shall  live  for  any  touch  of  mine  !  " 

Straightway  the  sun  was  darkly  cast  in  clouds 
The  gloom  brought  rain  and  lightning,  and  a  wind 
Sprang  up  and  wandered  wailing  round  the  woods  ; 
The  fisher  at  the  far  end  of  the  lake 
Heard  troubled  cries,  toss'd  on  the  fretful  air, 
And  putting  forth,  and  coming  to  the  arm,  he  saw 
One  hovering  like  a  glory  round  the  lilies  ; 
And  as  he  looked  the  rain  was  past  and  done. 
And  seven  slant  sunbeams  piercing  thro'  the  shade, 

1 88 

Beat  on  her  form,  which,  like  a  richer  light, 

Passed  into  them,  and  flushed  them  with  soft  hues, 

Rose-blush,  rare  azure,  and  all  fairy  tints  ; 

So  that  a  shaft  of  painted  mist  arose 

From  where  she  had  been  ;   and  as  he  turned  away. 

Behold  !   a  rainbow  stretched  across  the  lake. 



Old  duke,  with  the  long  white  beard, 
Of  what  woe  art  thou  afeared  ? 

What  unplumbed  and  deathly  wound 
Gapes  unto  thine  eyes  profound  ? 

What  disastrous  blaze  of  wing 
Smoulders  in  thy  ruby  ring  ? 

From  thy  cup  gleams  what  disgrace 
From  they  napkin  what  dismays  ? 

Like  a  dreamer  answereth  he 
"  It  is  one  shall  follow  me, 

"  Without  virtue,  without  lust, 
A  bowellessness,  a  painted  dust 

"  Perk'd  up  in  our  powerful  seats 
For  a  race  of  liars  and  cheats, 

"  Whom  he  knoweth  not  to  contemn — 
Cozening,  and  not  ruling  them  !  " 


To  John  Bunyan 

John,  it  was  sweet  of  thee  to  be  a  tinker, 
For  poor  men  need  a  trade  ; 

And  of  all  trades  that  picture  well  with  art,  John- 
Intuitive,  innocent  art,  John — 
It  is  the  tinker's. 

And  it  was  sweet  of  thee  to  go  to  gaol,  John, 
Even  unto  Bedford  Gaol : 
Why  may  not  all  of  us  forthwith  repair,  John, 
To  some  such  sunless  fastness. 

And  dream  large  dreams,  John  ? 

And  sweet  it  was  of  thee  to  make  and  write,  John, 
A  sweet  and  decent  book 

Which  hath  an  honest  savour,  like  good  bread,  John, 
And  keeps  the  general  palate  ;   though  their  fictions 
Do  come,  and  go,  John. 


Ah  !  who  would  not,  to  author  such  another, 

Take  thy  extremity, 
Thy  petty  craft ;   thy  "  gross,  implacable  "  doctrine  ; 
Yea,  even  a  threadbare  "  treatise-dowered  "  spouse,  John, 

And  thank  his  stars,  John  ? 



If  I  should  ever  be  in  England's  thought 

After  I  die, 
Say,  "  There  were  many  things  he  might  have  bought 

And  did  not  buy. 

"  Unhonoured  by  his  fellows  he  grew  old 

And  trod  the  path  to  hell, 
But  there  were  many  things  he  might  have  sold 

And  did  not  sell." 




The  Baby  of  Bethlehem 

Lay  in  a  manger, 

And  the  Wise  Men  and  the  Kings  came 

To  give  him  gold  and  frankincense 

And  myrrh  ; 

And  Mary,  his  mother,  bent  over  him. 

And  he  had  a  star  for  his  own, 

Which  shone  white  and  fair  in  the  East. 

And  they  have  called  his  name 

The  Prince  of  Peace  ; 

And  in  his  name 

Men  have  cast  out  devils, 

And  handled  serpents. 

And  ruled  the  people, 

And  builded  glories  and  greatness, 

And  died  very  comfortably. 

And  you  of  Babylon 
Shall  consider  Him  now 
Stark,  where  He  stands — 
The  Man  of  Sorrows 


And  Acquainted  with  Grief, 
The  Light  of  the  World- 
Shivering  outside  the  halls 
Wherein  you  make  feasts  for  Him. 


The  Christmas  Tree 

Far  off  in  yon  blue  Palestine 

His  star,  His  star,  doth  tremble  and  shine. 

O  little  Baby  fair  to  see, 

Bless  these  branches  for  Thy  tree, 

And  these  twinkling  lights  whose  flame 
Is  spent  to  glorify  Thy  Name, 
And  these  children,  whose  bright  eyes 
Are  a  perpetual  sacrifice  ! 


Graves  in  France 

Once  there  was  a  little  moon 
That  look'd  down  on  Gfolgotha 
And  three  crosses  ranged  there 
And  the  burdens  which  they  bare  : 
Naught  might  hurt  or  trouble  her, 
Wise  as  wise  and  fair  as  fair. 

O  thou  silver  little  moon, 
Miles  and  miles  of  Golgotha 
Now  are  spread  to  thy  still  stare  : 
And  the  myriad  crosses  there 
Glimmer  on  the  evening  air, 
Wise  as  wise  and  fair  as  fair. 


The  Lonely  Man 

For  him 

There  were  no  Springs, 

No  tender  green,  no  blue,  nor  living  gold, 

No  rose  of  holy  white, 

No  blessed  rose  of  red. 

No  glory  of  love  or  death. 

The  foolish  and  the  faint 

Set  many  marks  on  him  ; 

The  foolish  and  the  faint 

Were  easy,  and  they  laughed. 

The  Fool  said,  "  Here  is  one 

Less  than  myself  "  ; 

The  Faint  said,  "  Here  is  one 

Fainter  than  I ; 

Wherefore  lay  on, 

And  may  the  Lord  be  praised  !  " 

So  that  his  bread  was  dust. 
And  his  drink  bitterness. 


And  his  delight  went  past  him, 

And  he  died 

Cheated,  and  bowed,  and  dumb. 

And  when  the  Worlds, 

That  are  as  sand  and  sand 

Upon  the  winds  of  Time, 

Dropp'd  and  were  quiet, 

I  looked  athwart  the  broken  battlement 

And  saw  his  grey  soul  beating  up  the  dawn 


The  Admiring  Admirer 

A  daw  that  went  in  feathers  not  his  own 

Sought  out  the  opulent  bird  he  had  them  from, 
And  cried,  "  Behold,  the  plumage  thou  hast  strown 
To  glory  come  !  " 

Whereon  the  other,  "  That  thou  shouldst  aspire 
So  stuck  with  wastage  keeps  thee  in  our  love  ; 
They  steal  Jove's  thunder  and  they  steal  his  fire 
Yet  hurt,  not  Jove." 



Chidden  still  murmurs, 
Slapped  and  Rapped  complain, 
Hurt,  with  a  thousand  tongues. 
Whines  out  his  pain. 

This  is  the  learning 
Unto  which  we  come  : 
Properly  walloped 
Is  for  ever  dumb. 


In  Harness 

[After  W.  E.  Henley] 

At  the  sultry  hour  of  midnight, 
When  we  keep  the  door  propped  open 
For  the  little  boys  with  "  flimsy  " 
I  can  hear  our  presses  whirring. 

Whirling,  whirring,  in  a  rhythm, 
Steady,  rational,  persistent ; 
Churning  out  the  first  edition, 
To  illuminate  the  counties. 

Like  the  noise  of  many  waters 
Broken  on  a  weir  of  tea-trays, 
Is  the  sound — a  choppy  droning  : 
And  it  rather  soothes  one's  heart-strings. 

Yet,  at  times,  I  can't  help  thinking 
How  much  of  my  life  goes  whirring. 
Whirling,  whirring,  whir,  whir,  whirring 
With  the  whirring  of  those  presses. 


The  Good  Conceit 

[After  W.  E.  Henley] 

Out  of  the  cloud  that  covers  me 

And  blots  the  stars  and  seldom  lifts, 

I  thank  whatever  gods  may  be 
For  my  indubitable  gifts. 

Under  the  whip,  upon  the  setts, 
Men  drive  me  many  a  galling  mile  ; 

My  stock  of  editors'  regrets 

Would  fill  a  barrow,  but — /  smile. 

Fast  by  this  trade  of  wind  and  wit 
I  mean  to  hold  till  life  be  done. 

And  every  year  I  stay  in  it 

Finds,  and  shall  find  me,  tugging  on. 

It  matters  not  how  stiff  and  sheer 
The  climb — ^how  difficult  the  sum, 

I  am  the  man  they've  got  to  hear  ! 
I  am  the  man  that's  bound  to  come  ! 

July  1899 


October  21 

Dreams  that  shine  for  England  still 
Like  a  city  on  a  hill — 
Glory  snatch'd  from  old  dead  woe, 
Names  of  battles  long  ago  ! 

Yea,  with  panoply  of  gold. 
Pomps  and  glitterings  manifold, 
Shine  they  forth  like  happy  stars 
On  the  midnight  of  the  wars. 

Dreams  that  heal  the  banner*s  rents, 
Dreams  that  fire  the  regiments, 
Dreams  that  are  for  English  eyes 
Smoke  of  the  sweet  sacrifice. 

Age-old  tales  of  Chivalry 
Clearing  still  its  place  to  die. 
Sturdy  pikes,  stout  halberdiers 
Conquering  through  the  misty  years. 


Great  grey  galleons,  saucy  sloops, 
Proud-eyed  men  on  haughty  poops- 
One  of  them,  with  breast  ablaze, 
Dies  for  England  all  her  days  ! 



'Tis  thine  to  give, 
And  thine  to  scorn  ; 
So  shalt  thou  live 
And  reign  and  mourn. 

When  all  is  done 

Fate  worketh  thee  no  ill, 

Leaving  thee  still 

Thy  skill, 

Thy  furious  wise  will. 

And  they  heart  of  stone. 

The  End 


James  Elroy  Flecker 

0      0 

'T^HE  Collected  Poems.  In  one 
volume.  Small  410,  price  7s.  6d. 

^hird  Impression 

"  It  is  a  unique  pleasure  to  read 
a  poet  like  Flecker,  so  well  fluted, 
so  mellow,  so  rounded,  so  master- 
ful and  secure,  and  of  such 
inestimable  benefit  to  a  modern 
literature  dubious  of  itself  and 
without  formulated  principles." 

The  'Nation, 

Ford  Madox  HuefFer 

0     0 

'T^HE  Collected  Poems .  In  one  volume, 
demy  8vo,  price  6s.  net. 

"Such  a  poem  as  *  To  all  the  Dead* 
is  a  pageant  of  history  which  enthrals 
the  mind,  for  each  movement  and 
figure  is  sharply  visualized.  Poems  like 
'  Finchley  Road '  and  '  The  Three-Ten ' 
have  the  same  haunting  power  of 
marrying  past  and  present,  the  dream 
and  the  reality.  Mr.  Hueffer,  too,  has 
his  moments  of  tenderness,  when  he  is 
wholly  charming.  *To  Christina  and 
Katharine  at  Christmas '  and  '  The  Old 
Faith  to  the  Converts  *  are  so  perfect  of 
their  kind  that  we  dare  not  detach  a 
stanza  for  quotation." — Spectator. 

Collected  Poemj 


T.  W.  H. 



Martin  Seeker 



Books  .ot  returned  on  time  axe  -Met^n^reaing 
50c  per  'ol"""/"''.',,^,  the  sixth  dav.  Books  not  m 
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expiration  of  loan  period.  


J*  W  1919